Category: English

For seven years, Cameron never bought me a single flower. So, when a sprawling arrangement of a thousand imported red roses and a box containing a set of outrageously expensive, sheer black lingerie arrived on my thirtieth birthday, I was stunned. I snapped a picture, my heart fluttering with a naive, long-forgotten joy, and posted it to my Instagram. Minutes later, a notification popped up. A comment from Mia, his untouchable first love—the golden girl he claimed he’d outgrown. “Some people really just love picking up the trash I throw away.” That was how I found out Cameron had bought her a luxury condo. Right downstairs from the penthouse we shared. Right beneath my feet. The misguided delivery wasn’t an epiphany of his love for me. It was meant for her. I took the roses downstairs myself, pushing open the unlocked door, only to find them mid-laugh over a candlelit dinner. Cameron didn’t even flinch. He just looked at me with that chilling, exasperated glare and started yelling. “Can your mind not immediately jump to the gutter for once? Mia and I are discussing a corporate merger. We’re working.” He scoffed, adjusting his cuffs. “Besides, if there was actually something going on between us, do you really think you’d be the one I’m marrying?” The old me would have cried. I would have demanded answers, begged for reassurance, held onto his arm until my knuckles turned white. But this time, a profound, icy silence settled over my chest. I tossed the bouquet onto the floor, pulled the diamond engagement ring off my finger, and let it drop into the center of the scattered red petals. “I wish you both nothing but the best,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. 1 The diamond ring rolled across the hardwood, stopping directly at Cameron’s polished dress shoe. He let out a sharp, mocking laugh and stepped right onto it. The crunch of his sole against the platinum band echoed in the quiet room—a physical manifestation of how he’d crushed my dignity and my love for the better part of a decade. “If you actually want to marry me, Claire, you need to fix this paranoid, hysterical personality of yours,” he sneered, not breaking eye contact. “Stop getting in the way. We have actual business to handle. Go back upstairs and think about how you’re acting.” Hearing those familiar, weaponized reprimands, my inner world was terrifyingly calm. The storm had passed. I was just standing in the wreckage. I walked out of Mia’s apartment, pulled out my phone, and opened Cameron’s extended family group chat. I typed out a single, definitive text detailing his infidelity, attached a photo I’d just snapped of the romantic setup, and announced that the wedding was off. Cameron—a man who had never replied to my texts in under four hours—responded instantly. He fired off a photo of a laptop screen displaying a spreadsheet. “Handling a crisis with a subordinate. Completely professional,” he wrote. Then, with the practiced ease of a seasoned manipulator, he flipped the narrative. “Claire, throwing a tantrum just because I wouldn’t buy you that twenty-thousand-dollar wedding gown is pathetic. I didn’t say a word when you maxed out my Amex buying drinks for your guy friends at that bar last week.” The silent group chat erupted. My mother was the first to draw blood. She flooded the chat with venom, calling me an ungrateful, worthless leech who didn’t deserve a man of Cameron’s stature. She demanded I apologize immediately. She threatened that if I ruined this “perfect arrangement,” she would take her own life just to make me pay. Seeing the exact reaction I expected, I let out a soft, trembling sigh and permanently left the chat. After my parents’ bitter divorce, my mother had morphed into a ticking time bomb of rage. I grew up suffocating in a house of walking on eggshells. That was why, at twenty-three, Cameron’s polished, mild-mannered facade had felt like salvation. But over the last seven years, the curtain had been pulled back. His endless patience and gentle smiles were exclusively reserved for Mia. His polite, charming banter was for strangers and clients. For me, there was only a bottomless well of cold-shoulder treatment and sharp, biting criticisms. His favorite pastime was provoking me into an emotional reaction in public. He would push and push until I broke down crying, demanding answers. Then, he’d step back, put his hands in his pockets, and play the role of the exhausted, forgiving saint, making everyone around us believe I was simply unhinged. But this time, his math was wrong. Only a woman who still cares has the energy to scream. A dead heart doesn’t ripple, no matter how hard you throw a stone into it. When Cameron finally walked through the front door of our apartment, clutching a half-dead bouquet of the roses from downstairs, I was lying on the velvet sofa, scrolling aimlessly on my phone. “Why isn’t dinner ready?” he demanded, tossing his keys onto the console. “Are you still pouting? Drop it, Claire. You’ve always wanted me to buy you flowers, right? Well, here. Stop sulking.” He tossed the damp, bruised roses onto the coffee table in front of me. Years ago, I used to look at girls on the street carrying wrapped bouquets with pure, unabashed envy. I had asked Cameron for flowers so many times, only to be met with eye rolls. “If I knew you were this superficial, I never would have dated you,” he used to say. “It’s not about the money. But Claire, you sit at home doing laundry and cooking all day. Do you really think a housewife who contributes nothing deserves grand romantic gestures?” He called me lazy. He called me a gold digger. He conveniently forgot that it was his relentless coaxing, his promises of marriage and a family, that had convinced me to quit my high-pressure marketing job in the first place. To him, I was just a glorified maid. He hoarded his pennies when it came to buying me a single stem, but was generous enough to buy Mia a piece of prime real estate and a literal sea of imported blooms. Just minutes before he walked in, I’d seen Mia’s latest Instagram story. They had run a bubble bath downstairs, tossing the rose petals into the water, laughing and splashing champagne. After absolutely destroying the arrangement, Cameron had scavenged the few surviving stems to bring upstairs to me as a peace offering. I looked at the bruised petals. I didn’t even want to touch them. I used the toe of my slipper to push the flowers off the table, watching them hit the floor. I looked up at him, my voice completely hollow. “I don’t like dirty, second-hand garbage.” I paused, holding his gaze. “And I definitely don’t like dirty, second-hand men.” 2 Cameron’s face darkened, a muscle feathering in his jaw. “Who the hell do you think you’re talking to, Claire? Don’t forget whose apartment you’re living in. Don’t forget who pays for the roof over your head…” I wanted to scream. I wanted to remind him that for seven years, we split every grocery bill down the middle. Even after I quit my job, I survived off my own dwindled savings. But before the words could leave my throat, the oven timer chimed. A sharp, cheerful ding. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. I turned my back to him, slipped on my oven mitts, and pulled out the cake. Cameron watched my rigid posture for a moment. His brow furrowed, and his aggressive stance softened slightly. “Is today… your birthday?” My thirtieth birthday. And our seven-year anniversary. I had been on my feet all day, baking this cake from scratch, meticulously piping the frosting, just wanting to celebrate a quiet milestone with the man I thought I’d spend my life with. A flash of genuine guilt crossed his face. He walked over to the drawer, dug out a box of candles, and began placing them into the vanilla buttercream. “Work has been brutal lately. I’ll make it up to you,” he said, his voice dropping into that smooth, persuasive cadence he used to close deals. “Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll take you to Cartier. We’ll pick out a new ring. A bigger diamond.” He pulled out a barstool and sat across from me, the charming executive once again. “Claire, you have to stop competing with Mia. Yes, we had a fling when we were kids. But it’s been years. I moved on a long time ago.” Did he really? My mind flashed back to our first year together. I had brought him lunch at his frat house, standing just outside the cracked bedroom door, listening to his brothers ask him why he was settling down with me. “Because she’s not Mia,” he had said, his voice terrifyingly casual. “If it’s not Mia, it doesn’t matter who it is.” Back then, I was young and arrogant enough to believe my devotion could rewrite his heart. I thought love was a sheer force of will. Looking back, it was a slow-motion car crash. I had to unbuckle my seatbelt and jump before the whole thing went up in flames. “Don’t bother with the ring,” I said quietly. “Focus on your work. I’ll handle myself.” Cameron froze for a split second. But after years of my capitulation, he simply interpreted my exhaustion as submission. He thought I was swallowing my pride again. A satisfied smile played on his lips as he struck a match and lit the candles. “Make a wish,” he whispered. Every year prior, my wish had been the same: Let Cameron and I be happy. Let us last forever. This time, I closed my eyes and stared into the dark. I want to be happy. And I want to get as far away from Cameron Davis as humanly possible. I opened my eyes, drawing in a breath to blow out the flames. But the stool across from me was empty. The cake I had spent six hours perfecting was shoved halfway off the counter, smushed into the marble. He had left in such a rush he had knocked it over and hadn’t even bothered to close the front door. I numbly grabbed a roll of paper towels, wiping the sticky frosting off the floor. When I finished, I checked my phone. Mia had just posted a new update. “I’m such a klutz! Stubbed my toe on the dresser. Thank god my knight in shining armor is always just a sprint away to rescue me.” In the comments, Cameron—the man who had ignored my calls when I was rear-ended on the freeway last year—had written: “Whatever you need. Just say the word.” I hit the little heart icon, liking the post. A second later, a text from Cameron lit up my screen. 3 “Mia hurt her ankle. I’m driving her to the ER. Go downstairs and clean up her apartment while we’re gone.” A second text immediately followed: “And make some bone broth. Bring it to the hospital when it’s done. Remember, no cilantro.” A quiet, devastating realization washed over me. Cameron didn’t have any food allergies. But for years, anytime I accidentally garnished his dinner with cilantro, he would lose his mind. He would hurl the plate into the sink, screaming that I was an incompetent idiot who couldn’t get a single detail right. It wasn’t that he hated cilantro. Mia did. I debated ignoring the text entirely, but a strange, morbid curiosity pulled me toward the door. I walked down the carpeted stairs to the floor below. The door was ajar. Inside, Cameron was kneeling on the floor, cradling Mia’s foot, murmuring softly to her. The second he heard my footsteps, his tender expression evaporated into a hard scowl. “What took you so long?” he snapped. “If you delay her getting to a doctor—” Mia tugged gently at his blazer sleeve, batting her eyelashes. “Cam, don’t be mad at Claire. It’s okay. I know she’s always hated me.” “Enough, Claire,” Cameron commanded, standing up. “Clean up this mess. I will not marry a woman who spends her days drowning in petty jealousy and can’t even manage basic instructions.” With that, he scooped Mia into his arms and carried her toward the elevators. I watched his broad shoulders disappear down the hall. “I won’t marry a shameless, cheating coward, either,” I whispered to the empty air. Once they were gone, I truly looked at the apartment. The bathroom floor was soaked, towels thrown haphazardly. In the small, gold-rimmed wastebasket, two used condoms sat openly near the top. Bile rose in my throat. It all made sense. The late nights at the “office.” The sudden dedication to early morning gym sessions. He had been coming down here to sleep with her, showering, and then walking upstairs to eat the dinners I kept warm for him. I wandered into the bedroom. It looked like a luxury department store display. Rows of La Mer skincare, limited-edition Chanel bags, rows of designer heels. Just three days ago, I had timidly asked Cameron if he might buy me a specific Dior lipstick for my birthday. He had looked at me with pure disgust. “You’re turning thirty. Aren’t you embarrassed to even celebrate it? You’re not a kid anymore. Stop trying to act young. It’s pathetic. Just stay home and do the dishes. No amount of expensive makeup is going to make you twenty again.” He was right. I wouldn’t be twenty forever. But Cameron would always make sure there was a twenty-something girl in his orbit. His beloved golden girl, Mia, just happened to be his favorite. I took a deep, shaky breath. I pulled out my phone and meticulously photographed every inch of the apartment. The bedroom, the closet, the trash can. Then, I walked back upstairs to our penthouse and pulled my suitcase from the top shelf of the closet. Over our seven years together, Cameron hadn’t completely starved me of gifts. He bought me a set of French copper pots. A high-end robot vacuum. A custom-forged chef’s knife. I left every single piece behind. Halfway through packing, a bitter laugh escaped my lips. Downstairs, Mia’s apartment was overflowing with treasures. But up here, in the home I had bled and sweat to maintain for years, everything that truly belonged to me fit into a single, carry-on suitcase. Once the zipper was closed, I sat on the edge of the bed and dialed Stella, my best friend who had moved to London three years ago. It rang to voicemail three times. On the fourth try, she picked up. I choked back a sob. “Stella… I was wrong.” Silence on the other end. “I shouldn’t have made him my entire world. I shouldn’t have given up my career. I shrank myself to fit into his life, and now there’s nothing left of me.” My chest heaved. “I regret it. I want to come to you.” Stella let out a shaky breath. She told me I was an absolute idiot, told me I deserved the wake-up call, called me a fool—and then hung up on me. I sat in the hollow quiet of the bedroom, a tidal wave of grief crashing over me. I remembered all the late nights she spent begging me to leave him. I remembered the absolute heartbreak in her eyes the day she moved to London, furious that I was throwing my life away for a man who didn’t respect me. As the first tear slipped down my cheek, my phone buzzed. It was an email forward from Stella. An electronic ticket confirmation. First-class to London Heathrow. Three days from now. 12:00 PM. The dam broke. The tears I had been swallowing for seven years finally poured out—for myself, and for the ghost of the woman I had allowed myself to become. 4 Cameron didn’t come home that night. After I ignored his demands to cook for Mia, he simply blocked my number. I didn’t care. I needed to get the last pieces of my life in order. The next morning, I took a train back to my hometown to pack up the few childhood mementos I had left in my mother’s house. I don’t know what Cameron told her, but the second the cab dropped me off, I saw her pacing the front porch. When she realized I was alone, her face twisted into a mask of pure contempt. She didn’t know that Cameron considered himself far too good to ever set foot in our working-class neighborhood. He was deeply ashamed of where I came from. “So, you haven’t fixed things yet?” she demanded, not even offering a hello. “There is nothing to fix. It’s over.” The words were barely out of my mouth before her hand cracked across my cheek. The slap echoed over the hum of the street traffic. The left side of my face instantly went numb, then burned hot. But that wasn’t enough for her. Just like when I was a kid, she lost all control. Right there on the front lawn, in full view of the neighbors, she grabbed the heavy wooden broom resting against the porch railing and swung it at my legs. She hit me with everything she had. “Cameron told me everything!” she screamed, taking another swing. “Do you know how lucky you are? A girl with your background finding a man with his money? You are a pathetic, ungrateful little bitch! Jealous, throwing fits, out drinking with men!” I stood perfectly still, letting the wood hit my shins. “I don’t care what you have to do!” she shrieked. “Get on your hands and knees! Get pregnant! I don’t care! You will marry Cameron Davis, or you will never set foot in this house again!” A sharp gust of wind ripped through the trees, and the sky finally broke. Rain poured down in heavy, freezing sheets. My mother dropped the broom. She stormed inside, slamming the door. Moments later, the door swung open again, and she started hurling my belongings onto the wet grass. Books, clothes, old photographs. “Get the hell out of here! If you’re going to die, die as his wife!” A heavy brass debate trophy—something I’d been so fiercely proud of in high school—flew through the air and struck my forehead. The skin split. Warm blood mixed with the freezing rain, running into my eyes and down my jaw. I didn’t say a word. I knelt in the mud, sorting through the ruined artifacts of my childhood, picking up the few photographs that survived the puddles. A black Bentley glided down the street, its tires hissing against the wet asphalt, and rolled to a stop right beside me. Cameron stepped out. He held a massive black umbrella over his head with one hand, and with the other, he grabbed my upper arm, his grip bruising as he forcefully hauled me up and dragged me toward the leather interior of the car. “Have we learned our lesson, Claire?” he asked softly, slamming the passenger door shut once I was inside. He slid into the driver’s seat. “No one else in this world is ever going to love you. Just be good. Come home with me. You’ll apologize to Mia, and you’ll go back to being the future Mrs. Davis.” He tossed his suit jacket over my shivering shoulders. The heavy, suffocating scent of Mia’s Chanel No. 5 hit me like a physical blow. I turned my head away, staring out the rain-streaked window. My chest felt hollow. For years, I had viewed Cameron as my sanctuary. I had poured my deepest insecurities into his hands, trusting him with the trauma of my childhood. But he hadn’t protected me. He had weaponized my pain, using my fear of abandonment as a leash to keep me compliant. He was never my safe harbor. He was the storm I had been convinced was sheltering me. Only by cutting him out—by cutting out this toxic family—could I ever breathe. As I sat there bleeding onto his pristine leather seats, his phone rang through the car’s Bluetooth. “Cam! Where are you?” Mia’s voice whined through the speakers. “Everyone’s waiting for you at the corporate retreat! The whole executive team is making fun of me, saying you left the future boss’s wife to hold court while the boss skips out. I can’t handle them alone!” Cameron shot a nervous glance at my bloody face and soaked clothes. He instinctively reached for the console to end the call, wanting to hide me away, but then hesitated. A cruel idea clearly formed in his head. “Actually, Claire,” he said smoothly, putting the car in gear. “You’re coming to the company retreat.” For seven years, I was forbidden from stepping foot into his corporate world. When I brought him hot meals at the office, I was made to stand in the lobby, handing Tupperware to his assistant so his colleagues wouldn’t see the “housewife.” This invitation wasn’t an olive branch. It was an execution. I pulled a tissue from the glovebox, pressing it to the bleeding cut on my forehead. “Okay,” I said quietly. 5 I walked into the opulent hotel banquet hall looking like a feral animal. My clothes were plastered to my skin with mud and rainwater, my hair matted to my face, dried blood flaking on my temple. The moment we stepped inside, Cameron sped up, putting ten feet of distance between us, terrified the executives might realize we arrived together. Mia, dressed in a stunning silk slip dress, spotted me. Her lip jutted out in a manufactured pout. I watched Cameron lean in close to her, his hand resting on the small of her back. I couldn’t hear him clearly, but the shape of his words carried over the jazz music. “I’m not feeling sorry for her. I brought her here to humiliate her. I want everyone to see that without me, she’s practically a stray dog.” The room was filled with murmurs, sideways glances, and muffled laughter. But sitting under the weight of their judgment, my heart didn’t even skip a beat. Maybe you can only get your heart broken so many times before the nerves just die. I calmly flagged down a waiter, asked for a dry towel, and wrapped it around my shoulders. I sat on a velvet sofa in the corner, watching the room like a spectator at a zoo. My phone buzzed. It was Stella. She was rattling off a list of marketing agencies in London that had seen my old portfolio and were eager to set up Zoom interviews. Before I could respond, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder. I turned around. Cameron was staring at me, his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Who are you talking to? What interviews? Where do you think you’re going?” I didn’t miss a beat. “Telemarketers.” The tension drained from his face, replaced by a smug, pitying smirk. “Of course. Your parents don’t even want you. Where else could you possibly go?” He checked his Rolex. “The rain stopped. You’ve put on enough of a show. Go home. And make sure you dry-clean my jacket.” I didn’t say a word. I just shrugged his blazer off my shoulders and let it drop onto the cushion. I stood up and walked toward the terrace exit. Mia tilted her head, watching me go, then grabbed Cameron’s arm, insisting they “escort” me out to the valet. As I stepped off the paved walkway near the gardens, Mia suddenly lunged forward. Her heel hooked around my ankle. I pitched forward, throwing my hands out, and fell hard into the manicured, massive rose bushes lining the driveway. “Claire!” Cameron shouted, instinctively reaching for me. But Mia let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp, stumbling backward. Cameron froze, instantly pivoting to catch her by the waist, shielding her from the non-existent danger. I crashed into the thick, thorny branches. Sharp, inch-long thorns tore through my clothes, slicing into my arms, my palms, my ribs. I hit the muddy soil beneath the bushes, completely covered in filth and bleeding from a dozen new cuts. I pushed myself up onto my knees, gasping through the stinging pain. I looked up. Cameron was bent over, delicately using a linen handkerchief to wipe a single drop of mud off Mia’s designer heel. He finally looked at me. A flash of genuine panic, maybe even shame, crossed his face as he saw the blood soaking through my torn shirt. “Claire, are you okay? Let me… let me drive you to the ER.” “Cam,” Mia whimpered, her eyes welling with crocodile tears. “You promised you’d stay with me tonight. It’s the anniversary of the first time we held hands. Are you really going to abandon me?” Cameron’s gaze darted frantically between my bleeding hands and Mia’s pout. He hesitated. “I’ll take a cab to the hospital,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “It’s your company retreat. You shouldn’t leave early.” A visible wave of relief washed over his features. He let out a breath. “Okay. Just… be careful. I’ll pick up some of those raspberry macarons you like on my way home tomorrow.” Raspberry macarons. Mia’s favorite. But I didn’t correct him. There was no point in arguing with a ghost. I had always been the sacrificial lamb, the collateral damage in his life. Rather than waiting around for a love that would never come, it was time to quietly close the door. 6 The ER doctor used metal tweezers to painstakingly extract the broken thorns from my skin. With every prick, every pull, it felt like I was physically extracting the seven years of toxic love out of my bloodstream. The next morning, as I packed the final items into my carry-on, Cameron did something he hadn’t done in years. He initiated a FaceTime audio call. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” he demanded. “Didn’t you block me?” A beat of silence. Then, his voice softened into a practiced, soothing rhythm. “I’m half an hour away. I got the macarons. And croissants. Oh, and I bought you a new ring. Platinum, just like you wanted. I know I was a little harsh these last two days. It won’t happen again.” I looked up at the clock on the wall. “We don’t have an ‘again’,” I said plainly. But he had already hung up. Three hours until my noon flight. I walked over to his sleek, silver laptop sitting on the desk. I tried three different passwords. On the fourth try—Mia’s birthday—the screen unlocked. I sat back in the chair and waited. Thirty minutes passed. An hour passed. I opened Instagram. Mia had just posted a new photo. She was sitting in the passenger seat of Cameron’s Bentley, their hands intertwined over the center console. On her finger, sparkling under the dashboard lights, was the brand-new platinum engagement ring. I let out a soft laugh. I turned back to his laptop. I opened his email client, selected the “Company Wide” distribution list, and attached the photo of Mia’s apartment, the used condoms, the receipts for her condo, and a meticulously detailed timeline of our seven-year relationship. I hit send. Then, I picked up a brass paperweight from his desk and drove it straight through the center of his laptop screen. I grabbed my suitcase, walked out of the apartment, and took a cab to the airport. Right as I handed the TSA agent my boarding pass, my phone began to vibrate violently. A tidal wave of missed calls, frantic texts, and voicemails from Cameron flooded my screen.

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There was a dry-erase board in our immaculate, marble-countered kitchen. On it was my countdown. Estimated Time Until Total Heart Failure: 47 Days. Every morning, my mother would take a felt eraser, methodically wipe away yesterday’s number, and uncap a fresh black marker to write the new one. It looked exactly like the countdowns you see for a Black Friday sale. Precise. Clinical. Brimming with quiet anticipation. My name is Harper. I am twelve years old. I have a congenital heart defect. The specialists said without a transplant and complex reconstructive surgery, I wouldn’t live to see the end of the year. The out-of-pocket cost for the experimental procedure was three million dollars. My father, Richard Carmichael, is a real estate developer worth over two billion. But his exact words were: “Three million isn’t a viable ROI.” Return on investment. Because there was already a perfectly healthy asset living under our roof. My little brother, Miles. Eight years old, bright-eyed, striking, a piano prodigy who knew exactly how to charm a room full of adults. In this house, he was the only thing deemed “worth it.” ⋯⋯ 1 I first heard them discussing my death on a rainy Wednesday night. The heavy mahogany door to the study hadn’t been pulled completely shut. I was walking down the hallway, clutching my plastic amber pill bottle against my chest, when their voices drifted out. My mother, Caroline, sounded entirely composed. Like she was discussing a shift in their stock portfolio. “The insurance brokers confirmed it,” she said. “Harper’s life insurance policy is capped at five million. Standard death benefit. We are the sole beneficiaries.” I heard the crisp rustle of my father flipping through a file. “Five million? We only paid eighty thousand in premiums when we took that out. The yield on that is exceptional.” Caroline murmured in agreement. “And since it would be death by natural illness, there’s no contestability period. It pays out immediately. I had the estate lawyers verify the fine print.” “Then we cancel the surgery.” I heard the dull thud of my father’s Montblanc pen dropping onto the leather desk pad. “Three million for a procedure with a sixty percent success rate? It’s a bad gamble. We save the capital, let the policy pay out, and net a clean five million.” “That five million,” Caroline said, her voice softening slightly, “would easily cover Miles’s tuition for that Swiss boarding school track, plus a new investment property in the right school district.” She hesitated. Just for a second. “But Richard… the optics. People in our circle will talk.” “Let them,” Richard scoffed. “Congenital heart failure. The top pediatric cardiologists already said it was a long shot. We are simply respecting the medical consensus.” He paused, likely visualizing the PR spin. “When the time comes, we issue a press release. We say we exhausted every medical avenue, but it was God’s will. We throw a tasteful, tragic memorial. Invite the local press. It’ll do wonders for the firm’s philanthropic image.” The pill bottle slipped from my trembling fingers. Clatter. It bounced against the hardwood floor. The study went deathly silent. I dropped to my knees, snatched the bottle, and turned to walk away. “Harper?” Caroline’s voice sliced through the crack in the door. “What are you doing out there?” I didn’t turn around. I stared straight ahead at the shadowy hallway. “I just came down to get my meds.” “Take them and go to sleep. You have your follow-up at the clinic tomorrow.” “Okay.” I walked back to my room and quietly shut the door. In the dark, I looked toward the wall where I kept a mental image of that kitchen whiteboard. 47 days. It wasn’t a countdown to my death. It was the maturity date on their investment. That night, lying in the cold, cavernous space of my bedroom, I made a decision. If they were waiting for me to die— I would give them a death. Just not the one they were banking on. 2 The next day, I didn’t go to the clinic. I took an Uber to the corporate office of the life insurance company. The receptionist—a young woman with a kind face—blinked in surprise when a pale, twelve-year-old girl walked up to her towering marble desk alone. “Hi, sweetheart. Are you lost? Who are you looking for?” “Hi. I need to check the status of a policy,” I said, my voice steady. “My name is Harper Carmichael. The policyholder is Caroline Carmichael.” She hesitated, her fingers hovering over her keyboard, but eventually, she typed it in. “Okay, I see it… Death benefit is five million dollars. Beneficiaries are your parents, Richard and Caroline Carmichael.” “Miss, can beneficiaries be changed?” “They can, but only with the authorization of the policyholder. That would be your mother.” I nodded slowly. “And if the policyholder refuses?” “Then it can’t be changed.” I thought for a moment, gripping the edge of the desk. “What if I bought my own policy? Could I name someone else as the beneficiary?” The receptionist looked completely utterly bewildered. “Sweetheart… you’re a minor. You can’t legally buy life insurance. And…” Her brow furrowed with genuine concern. “Why are you asking about this?” I offered a thin, hollow smile. “It’s nothing. I just wanted to know if there was a way to make sure my parents didn’t get a dime when I die.” The color drained from her face. She stood up, walking around the desk to crouch down to my eye level. “Harper… are you in trouble? Is something happening at home?” “No. Thank you for your time.” I turned and walked out through the revolving glass doors. The sunlight hitting the pavement outside was blindingly beautiful. A perfect, crisp afternoon. I knew I might not see many more days like this. Not because of my failing heart. But because I had decided that before they could ever touch that five million dollars, I was going to drain them. Or give it all away. I was going to make sure they got absolutely nothing. When I got home, the grand piano was echoing through the foyer. Miles was practicing his Chopin. He didn’t even lift his hands from the keys when I walked in. “Mom’s pissed you skipped the clinic,” he said over the music. “Oh.” “She said if you’re gonna be noncompliant, she’s going to cut your dosage.” I stopped dead in my tracks. “What does that mean?” Miles hit a complex chord, his shoulders shrugging casually. “Exactly what it sounds like. Your pills are, like, super expensive, right? A few grand a month. Mom said if you won’t do the therapies, she’s not wasting the money refilling them. Because…” He faltered, his fingers slowing down. Even he seemed to realize the next part was ugly. “Because what, Miles?” “Because it’s not gonna fix you anyway.” He was eight years old. And he delivered that line with the exact same breezy, detached inflection as our father. So casual. So matter-of-fact. I looked at him. This beautiful, golden boy, raised in the warm glow of our parents’ absolute adoration. He wasn’t inherently evil. He had just been conditioned, from the moment he could understand language, that I had no intrinsic value. I was a bad asset. A sunk cost. A defective product waiting to be written off. “Miles.” “What?” he muttered, still looking at the keys. “You play really beautifully.” He finally looked up, genuine surprise flashing in his blue eyes. “…Thanks.” I walked upstairs to my room. I pulled out the old iPad my father had handed down to me—the only piece of electronics I owned, and only because Miles had complained the screen was too small for him. 3 I opened an incognito browser. Can a minor write a legally binding will? How to invalidate a life insurance beneficiary? Slayer Statute life insurance payout. The search results handed me the exact weapon I needed: If a beneficiary is proven to have intentionally caused or contributed to the death of the insured, the insurance company will deny the payout under the Slayer Rule. I stared at that paragraph until the words burned into my retinas. Then, I started keeping a diary. But it wasn’t a diary. It was a case file. Using the iPad’s voice memo app and camera, I started recording. Every hushed conversation about my policy. Every time Caroline rationed my pills. Every morning when she wiped that kitchen whiteboard to update the days until my heart gave out. I documented it all. Three days later. The number on the board read 44. Just as Miles had warned, Caroline cut my medication. I was supposed to take three Amiodarone tablets a day. She handed me a little paper cup with two. “Mom, I’m missing a pill.” Caroline was standing at the island, meticulously peeling an organic apple for Miles. She didn’t look up. “Dr. Harrison said we could begin tapering your dosage at this stage.” “Dr. Harrison never said that.” The paring knife froze in her hand. The silence in the kitchen grew heavy. “I am your mother,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper. “If I say we taper, we taper.” I didn’t argue. I took the two pills, walked back to my room, and hit ‘Stop’ on the audio recorder hidden in my sweater pocket. I saved the file: EVIDENCE_004_Medication_Cut.m4a. That evening, Richard came home with a stranger. A man in a sharp charcoal suit, carrying a leather briefcase, flashing a perfectly practiced corporate smile. “Harper, sweetheart, this is Mr. Davis. He’s a risk assessment consultant for our insurance firm.” My father’s voice was dripping with a sickly-sweet warmth. Whenever he used that tone with me, it meant I was required to perform. “Mr. Davis just needs to do a quick health evaluation, okay? Be a good girl and cooperate.” Mr. Davis crouched down to my level, beaming. “Hi there, Harper. I just have a few quick questions for you. Super fast, I promise.” He pulled out a tablet. “How are you feeling these days? Any discomfort?” I caught my father’s eye over the man’s shoulder. Richard’s gaze was hard. A silent, terrifying warning. I smiled back at the man. “I feel okay. Sometimes my chest gets a little tight, though.” “Are you taking your medication? Staying on schedule?” “Oh, absolutely. Three pills a day. I never miss one.” A microscopic smirk tugged at the corner of Richard’s mouth. Caroline, standing by the stairs, visibly exhaled. Mr. Davis tapped on his screen, stood up, and shook my father’s hand. “Everything looks to be in order, Richard. I’ll expedite the paperwork. If… God forbid, the tragic happens, I’ll personally make sure the claims process is seamless and immediate.” “I appreciate it, Davis.” After the man left, Richard walked over and patted me on the head. Like a dog that had successfully rolled over. “Good job today. As a reward, you can have an extra thirty minutes of screen time tonight.” Thirty minutes of screen time. That was my compensation for helping them rehearse my own death. 4 I locked my bedroom door and exported the audio from the evening. EVIDENCE_007_Insurance_Prelim_Interview.m4a. I created three distinct backups of the entire folder. One on the iPad. One on a flash drive I duct-taped to the underside of my mattress. The third copy needed to be handed to someone I could trust. But I had no one. Kids at my private middle school? They only knew me as the sick girl with the rich dad; we never spoke. My teachers? Once, a gym teacher noticed a bruise on my arm and asked about it. Caroline made one phone call to the headmaster, and that teacher was gone the next day. Family? Every aunt and uncle was on the payroll of Carmichael Enterprises. Nobody would cross Richard. I lay awake all night, listening to my erratic heartbeat. The next morning, on my way to the bus stop, I saw him. A homeless man who practically lived on the park bench just outside our gated subdivision. He was always bundled in a frayed army jacket, cradling a scruffy orange tabby cat. The neighborhood private security had chased him off a dozen times, but he always drifted back. I walked off the manicured sidewalk and approached him. “Excuse me, sir. What’s your name?” He blinked, pulling his chin out of his collar. His eyes were milky but surprisingly sharp. “…Arthur.” “Arthur. Do you have a cell phone?” “No.” “Can you read?” “…I used to be a middle school English teacher.” That stopped me. A teacher? “Arthur, is it okay if I come sit with you after school every day?” He didn’t speak. He just gave a slow, cautious nod. From that afternoon on, I made Arthur my daily routine. I’d bring him a bottle of water and a sandwich—food I’d hide in my backpack from my own untouched lunches. Over the weeks, he told me his story. His wife had died of ovarian cancer, the medical debt swallowed their house, and he just… fell through the cracks of the world. We became a strange sort of friends. One overcast Tuesday, I reached into my pocket and pulled out the flash drive. “Arthur. If I die, will you promise to take this to the police?” His rough, weathered hands started to shake. “What… what are you talking about, kid?” “My parents took out a five-million-dollar life insurance policy on me. If I die, they get the money. So they’re canceling my doctors and cutting my heart medicine.” I placed the small plastic drive into his palm. “Every piece of evidence is on here. If the police prove they intentionally hastened my death, the insurance company won’t pay out. Under the Slayer Statute.” I looked him dead in the eyes. “They are waiting for a five-million-dollar payday. I want them to get prison sentences instead.” Tears spilled over Arthur’s dirt-smudged cheeks, catching in his gray beard. “I can’t let you die. You’re just a little girl!” I sat next to him on the cold wooden bench and gently patted his hunched shoulder. I was the one with the failing heart. I was the one running out of time. Yet here I was, comforting a broken man who was crying for me. 5 The number on the kitchen whiteboard was down to 31. My body was giving out. It used to just be a tightness in my chest. Now, walking up a single flight of stairs left me gasping, my lips turning a faint shade of blue. Caroline watched me struggle down the hallway. There was no pity in her eyes. Just arithmetic. “We have about a month,” I heard her whispering to Richard in the kitchen later that night. “Davis has the paperwork queued up. When it happens, the narrative is a sudden, tragic deterioration of her congenital condition.” “And her meds?” Richard asked, pouring himself a scotch. “I’ve got her down to one pill a day. By the end of the week, I’ll stop them completely.” “Good. Make sure the staff doesn’t notice anything off.” I was standing barefoot in the dark dining room, the voice recorder running in my pajama pocket. EVIDENCE_015_Medication_Termination.m4a. That Thursday afternoon, the darkness finally swallowed me. I collapsed in the middle of the school cafeteria. When I opened my eyes, the harsh fluorescent lights of a hospital room blinded me. A woman in a white coat was standing at the foot of my bed. Dr. Evelyn Garza. She was in her forties, with sharp, intelligent eyes, and she looked absolutely furious as she flipped through my chart. “Your bloodwork makes no sense,” she said, realizing I was awake. “Based on your chart, you should be on three doses of Amiodarone a day. Your serum levels are barely registering a fraction of one. Have you been throwing them up?” I stared at the ceiling and said nothing. Dr. Garza sighed, pulled up a chair, and sat close to my bed. Her voice dropped, losing the clinical edge, replaced by a fierce maternal warmth. “Harper. Talk to me. Is something happening at home?” I turned my head to look at her. She wasn’t just checking boxes. She actually cared. “Dr. Garza, if I tell you a secret, do you promise not to tell my parents?” “I promise. What is it?” “My parents are trying to kill me.” Her pupils dilated. She froze. “They bought a five-million-dollar life insurance policy on me. They’re the beneficiaries. They’ve been cutting my pills so my heart will fail naturally, and they can collect the payout.” I took a shallow, painful breath. “I have proof. Audio recordings, videos, a diary. Everything.” Dr. Garza’s hands began to tremble. She had been practicing medicine for twenty years. She had seen death in every form. But she had never seen a twelve-year-old girl explain her own premeditated murder with the dead-eyed calm of an accountant. “Why… why haven’t you called the police?” “My dad is Richard Carmichael.” Dr. Garza went still. Richard Carmichael. The billionaire developer. The man who had single-handedly funded the construction of the new pediatric cardiology wing we were currently sitting in. The wing was literally named The Carmichael Pavilion. “Harper,” Dr. Garza said, her voice dropping to a fierce, resolute whisper. “I am going to keep you admitted for observation. You are not leaving this hospital.” She stood up, pulling her phone from her pocket. “And I am going to make a call.” “To who?” “My old roommate from med school. He realized he hated blood and went to law school instead. He’s the Assistant State’s Attorney now. Your father’s money might buy this hospital, Harper, but it doesn’t buy the State of Illinois.” 6 I watched her walk out into the hall. She was the second person willing to fight for me. The first was a homeless man. The second was a doctor I had just met. Strangers with no blood tie to me whatsoever. When she came back in, I looked up at her. “Dr. Garza?” “Yeah, kiddo?” “Thank you. But… what if my dad finds out? He destroys people who cross him. Aren’t you scared?” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “The day I took the Hippocratic Oath, I swore to do no harm and to protect my patients.” She adjusted my IV line. “Your dad bought a building. Good for him. But a building doesn’t buy my conscience.” Two hours later, Caroline swept into the room. She was wearing her standard uniform of understated wealth—a cashmere camel coat, a Birkin bag on her forearm—and a perfectly calibrated mask of motherly distress. “Oh, my poor darling,” she cooed, reaching for me. “Mommy’s here. Let’s get you discharged and take you home to your own bed.” Dr. Garza stepped directly between my mother and the bed. “Mrs. Carmichael. Harper’s cardiac rhythms are highly unstable. I am holding her for mandatory observation.” Caroline’s mask slipped for a fraction of a second. The warmth vanished from her eyes. “Dr. Garza, we have a fully equipped medical suite at home. I’ll be taking my daughter.” “Then perhaps you can explain why her medication levels are critically low?” Dr. Garza held her ground, locking eyes with my mother. “According to her records, she requires three doses a day. Her toxicology report shows a concentration of less than a third of that. The only medical explanation is that someone is withholding her prescriptions.” Caroline turned ashen. “What… what are you insinuating?” “I’m not insinuating anything. I am stating a medical fact.” Dr. Garza slapped the metal chart shut. “Harper is not leaving. If you attempt to force a discharge, I will have you sign an ‘Against Medical Advice’ waiver. That document will be forwarded immediately to Child Protective Services for medical neglect.” Caroline stood frozen, her jaw trembling slightly. She was a strategist. She knew that signing that paper left a massive, undeniable paper trail. “…Fine. Keep her for now.” Caroline pivoted on her designer heels. As she brushed past my bed, she leaned down, her perfume suffocating me, and hissed into my ear: “Don’t think you can outsmart us, Harper.” I didn’t look at her. Under the thin hospital blanket, my thumb pressed ‘Save’ on the recorder. EVIDENCE_019_Hospital_Confrontation.m4a. That was enough. Without a second thought, I pulled out my iPad, attached the zipped folder of evidence, and hit ‘Send’ to the email address Dr. Garza had given me. I watched the progress bar hit 100%. Mom, Dad. This is my final gift to you. I hope you choke on it.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402426”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

At my best friend’s wedding, the bride’s bouquet arced through the air, fumbled by a groomsman, and landed squarely in my chest. The entire room’s gaze shifted, as if choreographed, straight to Margot. Eight years we’d been together. The crowd wasn’t going to let an opportunity like this slide. “Put a ring on it! Put a ring on it!” “He’s got the flowers, Margot! You’re up!” Pushed forward by a sea of laughing bridesmaids, Margot finally stumbled to a halt in front of me. I looked at her, the white roses fragrant between us, quietly waiting for her to say, Let’s get married. Instead, her face remained perfectly composed. She reached out, calmly slid the bouquet from my grip, turned, and casually handed it to the groomsman standing beside her. “He touched it first,” she said, looking back at me. Her voice was the same gentle, persuasive velvet she always used. “Be good. We’ll get the next one.” The spotlight swung away, chasing the bouquet. I stood there, looking at the young man’s face lighting up with exaggerated, thrilled surprise. I managed a stiff, self-deprecating smile. Margot didn’t know. There wouldn’t be a next one. My wedding was next week. … 1 Carter’s face darkened the second the music swelled again. I grabbed his wrist just as he was about to march over there. He whipped around, his eyes blazing with protective fury. “That little prick did it on purpose! I cleared it with every single groomsman and bridesmaid. That bouquet was supposed to end up in your hands…” “Carter.” I cut him off, my voice barely above a whisper. “The wedding isn’t over yet.” The room’s attention had already drifted away from Margot and me. It was now firmly planted on the young man holding the flowers: Chase, her executive assistant. He cradled the roses against his chest, shooting Margot a wide, sparkling look of devotion. Margot had already slipped gracefully back to the fringes of the crowd. The MC, a seasoned pro, tossed out a few quick jokes, and the party roared back to life. Carter finally wrenched his gaze away, swearing under his breath as he returned to his bride. For the rest of the reception, I sat at the head table reserved for the wedding party. I drank my champagne, absorbing the suffocating, sympathetic glances darting my way from every corner of the room. Margot sat at a different table, laughing effortlessly with her tech-startup friends. Chase sat right beside her. The physical space between them had long ago crossed the boundary of what was appropriate for an executive assistant. He wasn’t even supposed to be a groomsman. A bridesmaid had been added at the last minute, and Margot had insisted Chase step in to balance the numbers. She brought him everywhere these days. Networking, she called it. Gaining exposure. She even brought him to my best friend’s wedding. When it was time for toasts, Carter brought his new wife over to my table. He pulled me into a crushing hug, his jaw ticking as he leaned into my ear. “That kid has been maneuvering his way into Margot’s life for six months,” Carter hissed, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper. “I had a buddy run a background check. He’s calculated, Hardy. And Margot, she’s…” “Carter,” I said, patting his back, intercepting the rest of his sentence. “You’re the happiest man in the world today. Let’s not ruin it with this.” He let out a heavy sigh, pulling back, and said no more. Hours later, as the venue emptied out, Margot finally sauntered over. “Ready to head out?” She naturally reached for my coat, her other hand coming up, out of sheer muscle memory, to loop through my arm. I shifted my weight, turning my shoulder just enough to let her hand fall to empty air. “You’ve been drinking. I’ll call an Uber Black.” She didn’t seem to notice the rejection, just nodded lightly. “Good idea.” The sleek SUV glided through the Manhattan night. The tinted window offered a blurry reflection of my face. I looked sharp in the custom tuxedo, but there was no hiding the hollow exhaustion bruising the skin beneath my eyes. “Look,” she said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “Chase really did get a hand on the bouquet first. He’s young. He probably just wanted a bit of the good luck.” She smoothed a wrinkle from her dress. “I was just returning it to its rightful owner. Don’t read too much into it.” I didn’t answer. I just watched the neon city lights bleed backwards into the dark. She waited for a beat, finally tearing her eyes away from the glowing screen of her phone to look at me. “Are you mad?” She leaned closer, her perfume—Santal 33—clouding the air between us. “Didn’t I say we’d definitely get the next one?” 2 Her fingers combed through the hair at the nape of my neck, massaging gently. It was the way you’d soothe a temperamental house cat. “Our wedding is going to blow Carter’s out of the water. You can have as many bouquets as you want, okay?” A bitter, acidic ache bloomed in my chest. It was always like this. She would use that impossibly tender tone to issue an empty, hollow promise about “next time.” And then, in her mind, the storm was weathered. The crisis was averted. “Margot,” I said, looking at her reflection in the glass. “Hmm?” “Carter and I made a pact when we were kids,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Whoever got married first, the other had to tie the knot no more than a week later.” “We promised we’d be each other’s best men. That we’d be the first to witness each other’s happiness.” The backseat went dead silent. The fingers massaging my neck went still. “You’re still holding onto a childhood joke?” She let out a soft, incredulous laugh. Her hand started moving again, though the rhythm was absentminded, patronizing. “You know how fast plans change now. The venue, the schedule, the PR rollout—those take at least a year to prep.” “We’ll sit down and plan it out properly. I’ll give you the most perfect wedding. What’s the rush?” She didn’t explain why she couldn’t publicly commit to marrying me when the crowd chanted. She just leaped straight to the logistics of how to throw a perfect event. I suddenly remembered a month ago, when Carter practically dragged me to his tailor to try on the groomsman suit he’d designed himself. When I stepped out of the dressing room, Carter’s eyes had lit up, then inexplicably glassed over with tears. “Hardy, you look like a goddamn movie star,” he had choked out. “I made this one specifically for you. But when it’s your turn, I’m making you an even better suit. The best one of my career.” Margot had been there. She was sitting on the velvet sofa, head down, answering an email. At Carter’s words, she glanced up for half a second, offered a tight smile, and said, “Looks good.” Then her eyes dropped right back to the screen, her thumbs flying across the glass. In that moment, nestled beneath the overwhelming joy I felt for my best friend… was a profound, suffocating grief for my own eight-year dead-end. The SUV pulled up to our Upper West Side brownstone. Margot unbuckled her seatbelt. Thinking the little spat had been neatly resolved, she leaned across the center console, naturally expecting a kiss goodnight. I raised a hand, pressing my palm gently but firmly against her shoulder. She froze. “I’m tired, Margot.” She looked at me, her eyes narrowing slightly in the dim light. Silence stretched between us. Finally, she just patted my arm. “Being a groomsman takes it out of you. Go up and get some sleep.” “Chase said he can’t find a cab. His neighborhood isn’t safe at night, so I’m going to have the driver drop him off.” “Okay,” I said. My voice was entirely devoid of an emotional pulse. She hesitated. She was waiting for me to play my part. To tell her to be safe. Or to whine, with a hint of jealousy, “Why do you have to go back out this late?” Instead, I opened the door. I stepped onto the curb. The driver slowly pulled away from the curb. The front door clicked shut behind me. I collapsed onto the living room sofa, letting the darkness swallow me. A long time passed before I finally forced myself up and walked toward the bedroom. As I passed the room at the end of the hall, my footsteps halted. Four years ago, when we bought this place, we had designated it the nursery. Now, there was no child. It was just a graveyard for overflow storage and forgotten things. I pushed the door open. I walked over to a dust-covered crib in the corner and pulled out a thick, heavy stack of paper from the bottom drawer. It was all there. Her handwritten love letters from college. Movie stubs. Wristbands from music festivals. Polaroids from our road trips. At the very bottom lay a photo from my college graduation. I was giving her a piggyback ride beneath the blooming dogwood trees in Central Park. She had her arms wrapped tight around my neck. 3 Her long hair was caught in the same breeze that scattered the white petals. On the back, written in her frantic, sprawling script: “You have to carry me forever. Promise me.” The pale light from the streetlamp outside washed over the faded ink, cold and sharp. It felt like a silent, mocking sneer. From the street below, the faint hum of an engine pulling into the driveway broke the silence. I froze, crouching over the crib, just listening. The scrape of a key in the deadbolt. The hushed, careful footsteps on the hardwood. A moment later, the nursery door was nudged open. She stood in the doorway. “You’re still up?” I didn’t turn around. I kept my eyes on the crib. “Yeah.” “Why are you digging all this old stuff out?” she asked, her tone light, breezy. “Feeling nostalgic?” I ignored her question. Instead, I asked quietly, “Did he get home okay?” She paused, a momentary hesitation before explaining, “Yes, he’s home. He lives way out in Queens; it’s a nightmare getting a car out there.” “Oh.” I lowered my head, carefully aligning the edges of the Polaroid, and placed it back in the box. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed,” she said. This time, she stepped into the room and offered her hand, wanting to pull me up. I didn’t take it. I braced my hands on my own knees and pushed myself up, my joints popping. My legs had fallen asleep, and I swayed slightly as I stood. “Margot.” “Hmm?” She stopped at the door. “Let’s break up.” She went perfectly still for two seconds. Then, she let out a breathy, exasperated laugh. She reached up and tugged at her collar. “Are you seriously still hung up on the bouquet thing? Don’t be so petty.” It was the exact tone a mother uses with a toddler throwing a tantrum in a grocery store. “Alright, fine. I’ll order you an even bigger arrangement tomorrow. Are we good? Go take a shower. I have a board meeting at eight A.M.” She turned toward the hallway bathroom. “In a week,” I said to her retreating back. My voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the air. “I’m getting married.” Her hand, which had just grasped the brass doorknob, went rigid. A few seconds ticked by. She slowly turned around. The patronizing warmth had completely vanished from her face. “Hardy, stop this.” She pressed two fingers to her temple. “Marriage is a massive legal and financial commitment. You don’t just ‘do it’ because you’re throwing a fit.” “Is this what Carter was whispering to you about? Just because he rushed into a shotgun wedding, he thinks everyone else needs to be as impulsive?” “Hardy, snap out of it. Don’t let him get in your head. We’ve been together too long for this…” “Margot,” I interrupted. “The invitations go out tomorrow.” A tiny, almost imperceptible muscle twitched in her jaw. “Hardy, do you really think this is working? This doesn’t make me jealous. It just makes you look incredibly immature. Unreasonable, even!” “I am in the middle of closing Series B funding. My career is skyrocketing right now. Pulling a stunt like this only distracts me and ruins the rollout of my entire quarter.” “Are you really that desperate for a wife?” Her words felt like stones thrown at my chest. Years ago, this icy, corporate wrath would have sent me into a panic. I would have backpedaled, apologized, desperate to smooth things over. Now? There was nothing but a sprawling, quiet wasteland inside me. Her attention was a luxury commodity. It was reserved for high-stakes investors. It was reserved for her “indispensable” assistant—the late-night texts asking for advice, the surprise birthday coffees, the accidental extra day added to their “business trip” in Aspen. For the man who had been here for eight years? The budget had run dry. I met her furious gaze and simply nodded. “Yes. My friends are married. I want to be married too.” 4 With that, I walked past her and went into the bedroom. On my nightstand sat a glossy bridal magazine from six months ago. The headline screamed: THE GROOM’S GUIDE: 90 DAYS TO THE PERFECT WEDDING. I had bought it in a surge of giddy excitement, flipped through three pages, and then left it there after she told me, “We’re not in a rush.” I hadn’t opened it since. In the dark, I stared at the shadowy ceiling. My phone buzzed against the mattress. The screen lit up. A text from Carter: [You awake? My chest is tight just thinking about it. Seeing that kid’s smug face pissed me off. What the hell is going on with Margot?] What the hell is going on. Nothing was going on. It was just the simple, brutal truth of the universe: not all seeds you plant in the dirt decide to bloom. Another text bubbled up: [We promised. One week apart. Remember?] [Who knew your girl was made of stone? The flowers were literally in your hands. Eight years, Hardy. Not eight months!] [You know what? Screw it. I give you a pass. You’re allowed to break the pact.] My thumb hovered over the keyboard for a second. I tapped back: [Man, when have I ever broken a promise to you?] Margot moved out the next day, retreating to a corporate apartment downtown she kept for “late nights at the office.” I assumed my sudden, absurd declaration of a wedding had suffocated her, and she needed space to clear her head. Fine. The breathing room was exactly what I needed. I quietly managed the logistics. I contacted a broker and listed the Upper West Side brownstone on the private market. On the afternoon I handed the keys to the realtor, I was doing a final sweep of the living room. Tucked inside a stack of old magazines, I found a manila folder—critical specs for the prototype her company was launching. After a brief internal debate, I ordered a car to bring it down to her. When I stepped off the elevator at her floor, I could hear the muffled sounds of laughter bleeding through her heavy oak door. It sounded like a party. I raised my knuckles to knock. Just then, a familiar, boyish voice floated out, laced with a calculated, theatrical distress: “Margot, I feel awful. Honestly, I didn’t know what to do when she handed me the flowers. Now the whole Slack channel is going crazy. A bunch of the execs are DMing me, asking if we’re…” “You have to post something in the #general channel to clear it up! I’m too embarrassed to even look at anyone in the office tomorrow.” My raised hand froze in mid-air. Before Margot could answer, one of her closest friends, Chloe, cut in with a sharp, teasing cackle: “Oh, please, Chase. Do you actually want her to clear it up, or are you just trying to get her to say something else entirely?” A chorus of knowing, wine-drunk laughter erupted. Chase protested with an exaggerated “Stop it!” but there wasn’t a shred of actual annoyance in his voice. “Alright, leave him alone,” Margot’s voice finally drifted through the wood. It carried that lazy, indulgent warmth she saved for people she favored. “Don’t sweat the gossip, Chase. People have short memories. Give it a week, they’ll forget.” Give it a week, they’ll forget… The phrase forcibly kicked open a locked door in my memory. Two years ago, I had dropped by her office to bring her lunch. Distracted by her phone, she had naturally looped her arm through mine in the lobby. A VP had walked out of the elevator and spotted us. That exact afternoon, Margot had posted a stiff, formal message in the company Slack channel. “Just clarifying some lobby rumors so we can all stay focused on Q3 goals. The gentleman earlier is a family friend dropping off a package. Back to work, everyone.” Back then, I had forced myself to understand. She was a young female founder; she didn’t want the optics of her private life undermining her authority. To avoid causing her trouble, I stopped going to her office. My fingertips went ice cold. It suddenly clicked. The thing she was trying to hide wasn’t an “office romance.” It was me. She was embarrassed to be seen with me. 5 A man who brought absolutely zero strategic value to her empire. Another friend’s voice broke through the chatter, sounding hesitant. “But wait, Margot… what did you end up doing about Hardy? I literally got a wedding invitation in the mail from him this morning. It’s insane!” A beat of silence. Then, Margot let out a short, hollow laugh. There was no warmth in it. “Let him throw his tantrum.” “I’ve spoiled him over the years. I let him get away with a lot of petty stuff. But this time, he needs to learn a lesson. He needs to realize that throwing a nuclear fit isn’t going to get him his way.” “Damn,” someone whistled. “So the bride is officially going on strike?” Margot didn’t answer. Her silence was a confident confirmation. Until another friend chimed in, probing the quiet with cautious curiosity. “Marge… are you really going to push him this far? You guys have been together forever. We’ve been waiting to drink at your wedding for half a decade…” The friend’s voice shifted, slipping into a half-joking, conspiratorial purr. “Since you’re playing hardball… does this mean you’re keeping your options open? Say… for a certain executive assistant?” “Ladies—” Chase dragged out the word, laughing breathlessly. “Please, do not joke about that. Margot… she knows what she wants.” The way he said it—so soft, so intentionally loaded with implication. Margot didn’t correct him. Another wave of low, conspiratorial giggling washed over the room. “If you ask me, Margot’s a saint,” the first friend sneered. “Any other woman would have run out of patience years ago. What does Hardy even bring to the table besides whining? Not like Chase here. Smart, proactive… actually steps up when it counts.” “Stop it, you guys!” Chase said, though he was clearly beaming. The motion-sensor light in the hallway abruptly timed out, plunging me into darkness. I slowly lowered the manila folder to the floor. Using the toe of my shoe, I nudged it perfectly under the crack of her door. Then, I turned around and walked away. (Margot’s POV) I tapped my phone screen again, staring at the frozen text thread. My last message to Hardy, sent five days ago, still sat there: Let me know when you’re done acting like a child. Something felt off. I knew Hardy. I had spent eight years learning his architecture. Even when we fought, his silence always possessed a certain gravity, a subtle gravitational pull designed to make me look his way. But it had been five full days since I moved to the corporate apartment, and he hadn’t so much as posted an Instagram story. “Marge,” my friend Sarah said, shoving her phone into my line of sight. Her voice was tinged with genuine awe. “Holy shit. Hardy’s tux… wow.” I blinked, pulling myself out of my head. It was Carter’s Instagram grid. A carousel of nine photos. Right in the center was a shot of Hardy. He was standing by a floor-to-ceiling window in a luxury tailor’s suite. The afternoon light poured over him, casting a soft, golden halo around his broad shoulders. He was looking down, adjusting the cuffs of a midnight-blue tuxedo, a faint, devastatingly handsome smile playing on his lips. He looked incredible. It was a specific, relaxed kind of magnetism I hadn’t seen radiating from him in years. The comment section beneath the photo was a warzone of fire emojis and congratulations from our mutual friends. “Hardy looks lethal!” “Margot is a lucky, lucky woman.” “Finally! The royal wedding is happening!” Carter had blocked me from viewing his stories years ago, so I couldn’t see it on my own feed. But seeing it here, through a proxy, a strange, electric jolt of anger spiked in my chest. Was he actually serious? 6 And making this much of a public spectacle out of it? “Tch. He’s really committing to the bit,” I scoffed, though my throat felt a little tight. “Let him exhaust himself. I’m not showing up. Let’s see how he plays the groom to an empty aisle.” Sarah offered a strained, nervous smile. “Marge, is it really worth calling his bluff like this?” “You can’t reward this kind of manipulation,” I said, cutting her off, my tone sharpening. “Especially when he has people like Carter whispering in his ear. Once he humbles himself and this blows over…” I paused, my eyes narrowing. “I’ll make sure he understands exactly who he needs to cut out of his life.” Carter had always been a liability. He was a bad influence, constantly feeding Hardy archaic ideas about romance and masculinity. October 28th. The day after Carter posted the tuxedo photos. I woke up earlier than usual. Earlier this year, Hardy’s parents had flown in for dinner. Over wine, his mother had casually mentioned that the Farmer’s Almanac claimed the end of October was the most auspicious date for a union. If we missed it, we’d have to wait until next year. At the time, I just smiled, poured her more Pinot Noir, and deflected. “No rush, right? We have all the time in the world.” I remember thinking it was absurd to plan a multi-million-dollar milestone around an old wives’ tale. I never expected Hardy to actually listen to her. To actually book the goddamn date. My phone started lighting up. Texts and calls pouring in from the girls. “Marge, are you seriously not going? We’ve got the cars waiting. Give the word and we’ll roll up to the hotel.” “Do we need to plan the bridal suite ambush? Should we make the groomsmen sweat before the first look? It’s not too late!” I let out a harsh breath, typing back into the group chat: “Relax. Let him sweat.” I pictured Hardy right now, standing in that midnight-blue tux, staring at his watch, his heart pounding in his throat as he waited for me to arrive. A twisted, satisfying thrill of power swelled in my chest. He needed to feel this panic. He needed to be terrified of losing me, so he’d never try to back me into a corner again. Then, Sarah dropped a screenshot into the chat. It was Carter’s latest story. It was a video of a sprawling, impossibly luxurious hotel bridal suite. Gold-leaf champagne flutes. Silk ribbons. Rose petals scattered over a king-sized bed. The morning light filtering through the sheer curtains made the room look like something out of a cinematic dream sequence. The caption read: [To my brother. You deserve the world.] The group chat exploded. “Holy shit, he actually booked the Plaza.” “This vibe… Marge, if you don’t go, I’m going to physically drag you there!” “Margot! If you have a pulse, get moving! Stop playing chicken!” “Send the address! We’re coming to you right now!” The blue light of the screen reflected in my eyes. I stared at the rose petals on that bed, and suddenly, my chest felt incredibly tight. Every single detail in that room was begging for a bride. I pictured pushing open those heavy mahogany doors. I pictured the roar of our friends. I pictured Hardy turning around, the relief and absolute awe washing over his face when he realized I hadn’t abandoned him. I turned my head and looked at the walk-in closet. Hanging right in the center, wrapped in a protective garment bag, was a custom Vera Wang gown. The veil. The Jimmy Choos. A week ago, I had ordered my assistant to pull every string in Manhattan to get it rushed. I told myself it was just a contingency plan. But looking at the girls panicking in the chat, the tight, iron grip I had on my pride finally slipped. I picked up the phone, infusing my voice with a heavy, put-upon sigh. “Alright, fine. Everyone calm down.” I made it sound like they had simply worn me down. “Give me an hour to get into the dress.” I walked toward the closet, my pulse hammering in my ears, my footsteps faster than I wanted to admit. By the time the makeup artist I called had pinned my veil into place, my phone rang. It was Sarah, who had gone to our brownstone to do the traditional pre-wedding champagne toast. “Marge, why the hell did you guys sell the brownstone? Where are we supposed to meet Hardy?”

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When my grandmother fell gravely ill, I made a vow. I packed my life into a single duffel bag and vanished into a remote, ascetic ashram in the high desert, taking a vow of simplicity. For five years, I lived on a strict vegan diet and daily meditation, dedicating every ounce of my spiritual energy to praying for her miraculous recovery. Five years bled away in that quiet isolation. When I finally returned home, I found that my life had been hijacked. There was an imposter sleeping in my bed. She hadn’t just stolen my bedroom; she had utterly bewitched my oldest brother, the person who used to love me most in the world. And at her lavish eighteenth birthday gala, my own fiancé stood before the city’s elite and loudly declared that she was the only woman he would ever marry. In my past life, I had fought like a wild animal to claw back what was rightfully mine. My reward? They conspired to murder me. Now, my eyes snapped open. The blinding pop of flashbulbs anchored me to the present. I was back. Back at the exact moment of the imposter’s eighteenth birthday gala. 1 “Look at Blair trying to steal the spotlight on Peyton’s eighteenth birthday. She’s completely shameless, always hovering center stage.” “Excuse me, miss, you need to step aside. The guest of honor’s presentation is about to begin.” The murmurs of the ballroom washed over me like ice water. I blinked against the harsh glare of the chandeliers, my vision clearing to reveal Peyton and my older brother, Brooks, standing at the top of the sweeping grand staircase. A tidal wave of memories crashed into me—the cold stone of the wine cellar, the suffocating darkness, the agonizing venom in my veins. My eyes instantly burned red. I didn’t think. I just moved. I stormed up the velvet-carpeted steps, reached out, and violently ripped the diamond pendant straight off Peyton’s neck. The clasp snapped with a sharp hiss. “Who the hell do you think you are?” I snarled, my voice trembling with a rage that felt ancient. “My mother designed this necklace specifically for me. A stray like you doesn’t get to wear it.” A collective gasp sucked the air out of the grand ballroom. Brooks lunged forward, roughly shoving me back by my shoulders. He shielded Peyton behind his broad frame, his face twisted in absolute fury. “Blair, have you lost your damn mind?! What is wrong with you?” he roared, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings. “I can’t even believe you’re a Kensington right now. Give Peyton her necklace back. Now.” I handed the broken diamonds to a stunned waiter hovering nearby, then turned a glacial smile toward the brother I used to idolize. “Brooks, what on earth are you talking about?” I asked, my voice deadly quiet. “Since when is that her necklace? And since when is she the eldest daughter of the Kensington family? Don’t you feel ridiculous spinning these lies?” Peyton reached out, her delicate fingers wrapping around Brooks’s tuxedo sleeve. Tears pooled perfectly in her wide, innocent eyes. She was a masterclass in fragile victimhood. “Brooks, please. It’s my eighteenth birthday. Don’t fight with your sister over me,” she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to carry over the silent crowd. “Let her have the necklace. After all… she was the one who went away to the ashram to pray for Grandma. It’s my fault she suffered out there in the desert.” She paused, letting a single tear track down her perfectly powdered cheek. “If I hadn’t been so terribly sick with that fever, it would have been me, the older sister, doing that penance. Mother only took her in as a foster child because she was so touched by her filial piety. I should be the one to yield to her.” I stood frozen. The sheer audacity of her reversed reality left me breathless. She spoke with such earnest, tear-soaked conviction that the guests immediately erupted into venomous whispers. “Wait, Blair is just a foster kid? No wonder she looks so unrefined.” “Imagine being a charity case and acting this entitled.” “Look how gracious Peyton is. She’s a literal angel.” “They should throw that ungrateful little brat out on the street. Why even foster someone so toxic?” Brooks pointed a rigid finger at the waiter holding the diamonds. “Bring that here.” Martha, the head housekeeper who shadowed Peyton like a bodyguard, rushed forward. She snatched the necklace from the waiter and handed it to Brooks with a sickeningly sycophantic smile. “Here you go, Mr. Kensington. Let’s get this back on our real young lady.” I stepped forward, grabbed Martha by the collar of her stiff uniform, and slapped her hard across the face. The sharp crack silenced the room again. “You’re the help,” I hissed, my voice dropping to a terrifying register. “Who gave you the authority to snatch my property?” I shoved her away. She stumbled back, clutching her stinging cheek, immediately bursting into theatrical sobs. “Oh, the cruelty! Everyone knows Miss Peyton runs this house, and she treats us staff like family!” Martha wailed, turning her pleading eyes to my brother. “I’ve worked my whole life and never been struck! Mr. Brooks, you have to do something!” I stared Martha down, my eyes like chips of flint. “You’ve worked in this house for years. I suggest you dig deep into your memory and remember exactly whose name is on the deed.” Martha caught the lethal edge in my gaze. She suddenly stammered, her eyes darting nervously toward Brooks, terrified to speak another word. 2. Brooks’s face darkened, a muscle ticking in his jaw. Just as he opened his mouth, Peyton gave his sleeve another gentle, pathetic tug. “Brooks, please. Tonight is supposed to be joyous. Let’s not ruin the harmony of the evening over a piece of jewelry. I’ll just wear something else.” “Absolutely not,” Brooks snapped, though his eyes softened when he looked at her. “Mother custom-designed this for your debut. You aren’t swapping it out.” He raised his voice for the crowd. “The Harringtons will be arriving shortly. Mother made it very clear: tonight, at your debutante ball, we are officially announcing your engagement to the heir of the Harrington empire.” My stomach churned. Years ago, Peyton had dramatically collapsed on the front steps of my mother’s exclusive country club. Pitying her, my mother brought her home. Because Peyton was quiet and intensely compliant, my mother took her in as a ward, thinking she’d be a nice companion for me. But from that day on, Brooks—who used to carry me on his shoulders and sneak me ice cream before dinner—transferred his entire soul to Peyton. He started treating her like his one and only sister. He constantly praised her manners, her soft-spoken elegance. Meanwhile, I was the loud one. I played video games, I went out, I wasn’t the picture-perfect, submissive socialite he apparently wanted. To prove his devotion to Peyton, he had orchestrated this very moment: using her eighteenth birthday to publicly declare her the biological Kensington daughter, and me the charity case. In my past life, the crowd had turned on me. Brooks had his security guards beat me black and blue, then locked me in the subterranean wine cellar to “reflect on my behavior.” Upstairs, they drank champagne and celebrated Peyton’s coming-of-age. Downstairs, I was bitten by the venomous snake Peyton had slipped under the heavy oak door. By the time Brooks came to let me out the next morning, I was already a cold corpse on the concrete floor. This time, staring down the barrel of Brooks’s furious glare, I lifted my chin. “That necklace was designed by Mother, for me,” I said, my voice cutting through the tension. “You’re deliberately rewriting history. Calling her the biological daughter? Do you have any idea what Mother will do when she finds out?” Mother had flown out to escort my grandmother home from the hospital, but their private jet had been grounded by a storm. I had driven myself back from the desert ashram, wanting to spare them the trouble of picking me up. I hadn’t expected to walk into a coup. Brooks had timed this perfectly. He threw this gala knowing Mother wouldn’t be here to stop it. Peyton clutched the diamonds tightly against her chest, biting her bottom lip. “Blair, I know how desperately you want this!” she cried out. “I’d give you anything else in my closet, truly I would! But this is a symbol of Mother’s love for me. I just can’t let you take it.” “God, Blair, could you be any more pathetic?” a shrill voice rang out from the crowd. It was Kendall Montgomery, the illegitimate daughter of a local real estate tycoon, and Peyton’s most loyal lapdog. Ever since she bought into the rumor that Peyton was the Kensington heiress, Kendall had clung to her like a parasite, desperate for a foothold in high society. “You’re a foster kid,” Kendall sneered, stepping forward. “You should be on your knees thanking them for the food and clothes. Do you seriously think you’re a real debutante? You’re out of your mind.” I let out a low, humorless laugh. “You’re calling me an orphan? Kendall Montgomery, you have a lot of nerve opening your mouth about lineage.” I stepped down one stair, leveling my gaze at her. “You are literally a billionaire’s dirty little secret. An affair baby. If I were you, I’d be hiding in the shadows, not barking in a ballroom. The Montgomery family truly has zero shame.” Kendall’s face drained of all color. She opened her mouth, but only a strangled squeak came out. “Miss Peyton, you need a powder touch-up before the grand entrance,” Martha interjected loudly, trying to break the tension. Brooks nodded, his voice instantly softening. “Come look at the gift I got for you, Peyton.” A uniformed butler presented a velvet-lined silver tray. When I saw what rested on it, the breath was completely knocked out of my lungs. It was a worn, leather-bound scrapbook. Grandma’s scrapbook. It contained every polaroid, every ticket stub, every single milestone of my life since I was a baby. I remembered sitting by Grandma’s hospital bed, her fragile hand patting the leather cover. “This is for my Blair,” she had whispered. “The geography of our little princess’s precious life.” It wasn’t a million-dollar diamond, but it was the very heartbeat of our family. And Brooks was handing it to a stranger as a party favor. 3. “That is Grandma’s album for me,” I said, my voice cracking. “Brooks, you have absolutely no right to give that away.” Brooks placed the heavy book into Peyton’s hands. He didn’t even look at me. “Grandma specifically told me this belongs to the granddaughter she holds closest to her heart,” he said coldly. “And that is Peyton. Are you really going to try and steal this, too?” Peyton flushed a pretty, delicate pink. She looked at me, a subtle, triumphant smirk playing at the corners of her mouth—visible only to me. “When you turn eighteen, Blair, I promise I’ll buy you a much nicer, brand-new album,” she cooed. “But Grandma made this one by hand. I have to cherish it. I really can’t let you have it.” It was the exact same script from my past life. Every single time we clashed, Peyton played this exact role. The forgiving, magnanimous angel. It made Brooks view her as a fragile saint, while I was painted as the greedy, unhinged villain. Every tear she shed drove another wedge between my brother and me. I felt the hot sting of tears, not from sadness, but from a profound, agonizing betrayal. I surged forward, dodging Martha and the butler. Before I could even reach the book, Brooks’s hand cracked across my cheek. The force of the slap sent me stumbling. “I am disgusted by you,” he spat, wiping his hand on his trousers as if touching me had soiled him. “I have no idea how the Kensingtons ended up with someone so relentlessly greedy and shameless.” I pressed a hand to my burning cheek, staring up at the man who shared my blood. He looked completely alien to me. “I don’t care about the jewels, I don’t care about the dresses!” I screamed, my voice breaking. “But that album is from Grandma! You have to give it back!” Brooks closed the distance between us, towering over me. “Are you still lying? Still throwing a tantrum?!” he bellowed. “Security! Drag her down to the wine cellar. Let her sit in the dark until she learns her place.” The whispers of the elite crowd swelled like a dark tide. “God, this foster girl is delusional. She actually thinks she’s the heiress.” “She’s been faking it so long she believes her own lies.” “If I were Peyton, I would have thrown her out on the street years ago. So embarrassing.” I looked at Brooks. He was already signaling the guards. My heart flatlined. It was identical to the last time. He didn’t care about the truth. He didn’t care about me. He only cared about playing the knight in shining armor for Peyton. “What’s going on here? Has the ceremony not started?” A smooth, arrogant voice sliced through the murmurs. Footsteps clicked against the marble floor. Pierce Harrington, the golden-boy heir to the Harrington tech-fund, stood in the arched doorway. He looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine in his bespoke Tom Ford tuxedo. He was my fiancé. But… “Peyton, darling, why are you crying? Who upset you?” Pierce bypassed me completely, striding straight to Peyton. He reached out to brush a tear from her cheek, caught himself in front of the crowd, and let his hand drop. He turned a lethal glare around the room. Brooks pointed a rigid finger at me. “It’s this little brat! She tried to rip Peyton’s necklace off, and then tried to steal her childhood scrapbook!” He scoffed. “She’s actually trying to convince people she’s the biological Kensington daughter. I was just about to have her disciplined.” Pierce’s icy blue eyes finally slid over to me. I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms. “Blair just got back from living in a monastery,” Pierce said, his tone dripping with condescending pity. “I suppose she’s just jealous of all the beautiful things Peyton has. That’s why she’s spinning these delusional fantasies about being the real daughter.” He took a step toward me. “I never realized the Kensingtons harbored someone so profoundly shallow. Peyton has a heart of gold, so she won’t hold this against you. But I am not so forgiving.” His eyes narrowed. “If you ever upset Peyton again, I will personally ruin you.” I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. I’m shallow? He’s threatening me? His family’s wealth was new money, built on a lucky tech boom. How dare a glorified venture-capital bro speak to me—a true daughter of old Manhattan money—like this? I watched, nauseated, as Peyton gazed up at Pierce with glittering, love-struck eyes. I knew the truth now. They had been sleeping together behind my back for months. Tonight wasn’t just about stealing my identity; it was a carefully orchestrated play to legitimize her so she could steal my marriage pact, too. In my past life, I had foolishly waited for Pierce to defend me. I had thought he loved me. I hadn’t realized he was the one holding the knife. I won’t forget this, I thought, the vow engraving itself into my very bones. Pierce turned back to Peyton. He reached into the inner pocket of his tuxedo and pulled out a small, iconic Tiffany Blue box. He held it out to her like it was a holy relic. “I had this custom-made for you,” he murmured softly. Peyton popped the box open. The crowd of socialites actually gasped. Nestled inside was a pair of breathtaking, matching diamond bands. “Oh my god, Pierce is so in love with her. Those rings are millions.” “Are they about to announce an engagement?” 4. Peyton’s cheeks flushed a deep, feverish crimson. “Thank you, Pierce.” Pierce looked at her like she was the only woman on earth. “You’re stepping into adulthood today. It’s just a small token of my devotion. I hope you love them.” Kendall Montgomery snickered from the sidelines. “What’s the matter, Blair? Are you going to claim that the Harrington marriage pact actually belongs to you, too?” Brooks glared at me with absolute revulsion. “Look at how vulgar you are! How could you possibly be a match for the Harrington heir? Only a woman with Peyton’s refined grace is fit for a family like that.” I tilted my head, keeping my spine steel-straight. “What if I told you the marriage pact was mine?” Peyton suddenly lunged forward. Her hand cracked across my face—a stinging, vicious slap. Her sweet facade finally slipping, her face contorted with rage. “I wasn’t going to discipline you, but you have crossed every single line!” she shrieked. “You try to steal my necklace, you try to take my photo album, and now you want to steal the man I love?!” She took a ragged breath, re-centering her mask. “As your older sister, I cannot let you spiral like this. Security! Drag her to the cellar. Do not let her out until she has written a full confession and apology.” Two burly security guards stepped forward, then hesitated, looking nervously between me and Brooks. “Which one of you is going to touch me?” I asked, my voice a deadly, quiet hum. “You’ve worked for my family for years. Look at me. Do you really not know who the actual heiress of this house is?” The guards froze, shifting their weight uneasily. I turned my glacial stare back to Peyton and Pierce. “You think I want this garbage marriage pact? I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.” Pierce’s jaw clenched. The muscles in his neck strained. “You’re a street rat,” he spat. “You’ve lived in luxury for a few years and you actually convinced yourself you’re royalty. My marriage to Peyton was arranged by our elders. It has absolutely nothing to do with you.” “Whatever helps you sleep at night,” I sneered. Pierce raised his right hand, looking out at the glittering crowd. “I, Pierce Harrington, swear on my life that I will only ever marry Peyton. I will never betray her. And I do not care where she came from.” I tilted my head, a dark amusement pooling in my chest. “Oh? So even if she was just a nameless foster kid, a charity case pulled from the gutter, you’d still proudly make her the lady of the Harrington estate?” “Yes,” Pierce said firmly, wrapping his arm around Peyton’s waist. “Even if she was an orphan, she is the only woman I will ever love.” Peyton blushed, burying her face against his shoulder before looking back at me with sickening faux-pity. “Don’t worry, Blair!” she chirped. “When Mother gets back, I’ll make sure she finds a suitable husband for you, too. Even as a foster daughter, we’ll make sure you’re taken care of. A nice middle-management guy, or maybe a bank teller. We’ll find you a solid, ordinary life.” I covered my mouth, genuinely laughing. The sound was sharp and unhinged in the quiet room. “Peyton, you really, truly believe you’re the heiress, don’t you?” I wiped a tear of mirth from my eye. “Setting me up with a bank teller? God, that’s hilarious. It sounds like exactly the kind of life you belong in.” “Blair, you are out of control!” Pierce roared. “If you don’t get on your knees and apologize to Peyton right now, I swear to God…” Peyton immediately burst into fresh, dramatic sobs, turning to Brooks. “Brooks, I… I was just trying to be kind to her, I didn’t mean to offend her…” Brooks’s patience snapped. He grabbed a heavy, brass-tipped walking stick from an umbrella stand near the door. “Have you lost your damn mind, Blair?! Security, pin her down!” I didn’t back up a single inch. “Put your hands on me. I dare you.” Brooks slammed the brass tip of the stick against the marble floor. The sharp crack made several guests flinch. He looked at me with the eyes of a stranger. “As the heir and future CEO of the Kensington empire, it is my duty to teach you a lesson. Let’s see who dares to stop me.” He barked at the paralyzed guards. “Hold her. Now!” Fear of losing their jobs won out. The guards and a few groundskeepers rushed me, forcing me to my knees on the cold marble. Brooks raised the heavy wooden stick high into the air. Crack. Agony exploded across my shoulder blades. The sheer force of the blow tore through my thin silk blouse. I felt the hot, wet rush of blood instantly soaking the fabric. It was a brutal, bone-jarring pain. A few of the socialites gasped. “Mr. Kensington, maybe that’s enough!” someone whispered nervously. “She’s still a girl… you’re going to put her in the hospital.” “My god, look at the blood. This is too much.” My body was still frail from five years of ascetic fasting in the desert. The trauma of the strike sent dark spots dancing across my vision. I swayed, fighting the urge to vomit. “You just wait,” I choked out, tasting copper in my mouth. “When Mom gets home… she is going to destroy you.” “Still talking back?!” Brooks screamed, his face red with exertion. “I don’t care who walks through those doors! Today I am going to beat it into your skull what happens when you try to steal from the rightful daughter! Do you admit you were wrong?!” I locked my teeth together, shaking with pain and adrenaline. “I am… the Kensington daughter.” The stick came down a second time. The sickening thud echoed in the room. White-hot pain ripped through my spine, pulling me toward the edge of consciousness. “Are you going to try and steal from her again?!” Brooks yelled, raising the stick for a third strike. “You animal! Take your hands off her!” a voice shrieked from the grand entryway.

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The world ended, but the nightmare came with a twist: I could hear the thoughts of the undead. “Yo, back off! Nobody touches her. She’s the one our boy is obsessed with.” “For real. Remember when we were human? Grayson was the one who kept us safe. He’s got that lightning ability now.” “Listen up, guys. This is our Girl. We’re going to protect her, get her back to the Captain, and let him take over.” Then, a chorus of gravelly, psychic voices chimed in: “Are you high, Jax? No sane person sees a pack of ghouls and thinks, ‘Yeah, I’ll follow them.’ She’s gonna run the second she sees us.” I rolled my window down just a fraction of an inch, my voice trembling. “I—I’ll do it.” 1 I’ve officially lost my mind. When the sky fell and the world went to hell, I didn’t get super-strength or the ability to fly. I got the “privilege” of hearing the internal monologues of the things trying to eat me. I’d been holed up in my cramped studio apartment for thirty days. The silence was deafening, and my pantry was a graveyard of empty granola bar wrappers. Starvation eventually overrode my survival instinct. I crawled into my beat-up little hatchback, desperate for a grocery run, only to be swarmed by a mob of the undead within three blocks. I thought it was over. I watched them climb onto my hood, their gray, decaying palms slamming against the windshield. I was curled in the driver’s seat, shaking so hard my teeth rattled, when the voices started bleeding into my skull. “Wait, wait! Stop hitting the glass! Look at her… doesn’t she look exactly like that girl Grayson Pierce used to keep a photo of?” “Grayson? You mean Captain Pierce? The guy with the lightning hands? Man, he saved all our asses before we turned. You guys didn’t forget that, did you?” “Nobody forgot. He practically ran the city’s defense. And everyone knew the only thing he cared about was finding his ‘Holy Grail’—this girl.” “Talk about a lucky break. We’ve been looking for her for weeks. Brothers, we’re taking the Boss’s Girl home.” I thought I was hallucinating from the sheer terror. I was being hunted by a pack of zombies, and I was dreaming they were my secret service? But then, more voices joined the fray. “Jax, you’re delusional. Look at her face—she’s paler than we are. She’s terrified.” “And even if we want to protect her, our bodies are literally hardwired to bite. How are we supposed to escort her without, you know, devouring her?” “Stop hitting the window! If you break it and someone bites Grayson’s girl, we’re all dead. Again.” “I’m sorry! My hand isn’t listening to my brain! It just wants to smash… I want to bite that neck so bad…” “Bad hand! If you can’t control it, I’ll bite it off for you!” Right before my eyes, three zombies lunged at another one, tearing his arms clean off with a sickening crunch. I nearly fainted. “Oh, great. Now we’ve really scared her. Should we just leave?” “If we leave, she’s literal finger food for the first mindless roamer she passes. We have to stay.” “Stay and do what? Give her a heart attack? We’re monsters, man. No one trusts a monster.” “Think! How do we get her to follow us to the Captain?” “Jax, give it up. Who in their right mind follows a zombie?” The group—about a dozen of them, still wearing tattered, blood-stained high school letterman jackets—started to shuffle away. I didn’t think. I just acted. I slammed my hand onto the horn. The sound echoed through the desolate street. They all froze, turning their rotting heads back toward me. I cracked the window a tiny bit more. “I’ll do it,” I shouted, my heart thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. “Can you… can you take me to Grayson?” 2 The world went silent. Outside that sliver of a window, the group of letterman-jacket-wearing corpses stopped dead. A dozen heads snapped back toward me simultaneously. Their clouded, milky eyes bored into mine. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen. My foot hovered over the gas pedal, screaming at me to floor it and get as far away as possible. But I forced myself to hold their gaze. This was it. Life or death. I was betting everything on the chance of having a zombie security detail. After a heartbeat of dead air, the mental chatter exploded: “Holy crap! Did she just… did she hear us?” I nodded vigorously, my hair matted with sweat. “Yes. I can hear you.” “Thank the gods! Brothers, get back here! We can actually talk to her!” “I haven’t talked to a living person in weeks. I’m gonna cry. I mean, I can’t actually cry, but I’m feeling it. A month ago, I was the Prom King!” “Girls used to flirt with me. Now they just scream. I can’t even look at myself in the rearview mirror.” “Don’t look at me either. Seriously, don’t describe what I look like. I don’t want to know.” “She’s Grayson’s ‘One,’ alright. Only his girl would have a crazy ability like this. It makes total sense.” “Wait, she’s turning green. I think we’re grossing her out. Everyone, pipe down! Give her some space. Keep it together.” The one called Jax—the leader—was in rough shape. Half the skin on his left cheek was gone, exposing a jagged white jawbone. But his movements were strangely human. He waved his one remaining good arm with a frantic energy. He tried to stretch his torn lips into a friendly smile, but it only made him look more like a sleep-demon. “Jax, stop smiling. It’s horrific.” “You’re gonna make her pass out.” Jax twitched, standing a few feet back, looking genuinely distressed. “Sorry, Boss’s Girl. I’m trying my best. Is it really that bad?” It was a nightmare, but I forced a rigid smile back. “I can handle it.” “Oh my god, she smiled back.” “That’s the first time a human has smiled at me since the world ended.” “Her smile is so pure… I suddenly don’t feel like ripping her head off quite as much.” Jax’s voice cut through the sentimentality: “Focus! Everyone stay back. Remember, we’re still zombies. We can snap at any second. Keep your distance!” The dozen zombies shuffled back instantly, forming a perimeter about fifteen feet away. Jax turned back to the car. “Boss’s Girl, drive slow and follow us. Before the change, Grayson holed up in his estate on the hill. High walls, electrified fences, plenty of food. He should still be there. Just whatever you do… do not get out of the car.” “Okay,” I whispered. Jax barked a mental order: “Listen up! If anyone gets within ten feet of that car, I’ll personally tear your skull open. Got it?” “Got it, Jax.” “For the Captain. Let’s move.” They began to move in a clumsy, coordinated dance, fighting their predatory instincts and keeping each other in check. They formed a loose escort around my little car, clearing the path ahead. I started the engine and put it in gear, moving at a crawl. Tears blurred my vision as I watched the back of those tattered jackets. They were the world’s most dangerous predators, yet here they were—grotesque, decaying, and fiercely loyal—paving a way through hell for me. It was absurd. It was terrifying. And it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. As we drove, I listened to their chatter, realizing with a jolt that the “Captain” they were talking about—Grayson Pierce—wasn’t just some local hero. He was my brother’s oldest rival. Since when was I Grayson Pierce’s “Holy Grail”? 3 Jax filled me in as we navigated the wreckage of the suburbs. “Your brother is with the Captain now. When the virus hit, Grayson went straight to your place to find you, but you were gone. He only found your brother, Brooks.” I responded in my head, realizing I didn’t need to speak out loud anymore. “The day the news broke about the outbreak in the city, my best friend was away for an exam. She asked me to go to her place to feed her cat. By the time I got there, the elevators were full of… them. I got trapped in her apartment and just stayed hidden.” Jax’s mental voice spiked in excitement. “Wait! Boss’s Girl, you can talk back to us without rolling the window down?” I realized it too. I had just thought the words, and they’d heard me. It was like I’d been added to a telepathic group chat of the damned. I concentrated, focusing my mind: “Can you all hear me now?” A chorus of voices flooded my brain: “Loud and clear!” “This is awesome! Wireless communication. This makes the apocalypse way easier.” “Can you hear me, Boss’s Girl? I’m Tyler.” “I’m Big Mike.” “I’m Sarah.” Names and voices swirled in my head. I felt a surge of warmth. “I hear you all. My name is Riley. You can just call me Riley.” Jax cut in: “Nope. You’re the Boss’s Girl. That’s the rule.” “Yeah,” Tyler added. “We’re on a mission to help the Captain win his girl back.” “Grayson is a beast now,” Big Mike chimed in. “Tall, brooding, and he can literally jump-start a car with his bare hands. The whole city’s power grid is fried, but he keeps an electric stove running at the house. His instant ramen game is legendary.” My stomach let out a pathetic growl. “Don’t talk about food. I’m starving.” Jax asked, “Why did you leave the apartment if you were safe?” I rubbed my empty belly. “Hunger. My friend was a bit of a prepper—lots of ramen and dried snacks—but the power went out weeks ago. I’ve been eating dry noodles for a month. I ran out yesterday. It was leave or die.” The zombies let out a collective, psychic moan. “Don’t talk about ramen. Now I want ramen.” “If I could just have one bowl of spicy beef noodles…” I interrupted their daydreaming. “How is my brother? Is Brooks okay?” “Brooks?” Jax chuckled. “He’s fine. Better than fine. He’s a ‘Hydromancer’ now. He can pull water out of thin air. He and Grayson are a total power couple—not like that, you know—but as a team. They’re unstoppable.” The others jumped in: “Exactly. In a world with no power and no water, you’ve got one guy who makes the water and another who boils it. They’re the kings of the apocalypse. You’re never going to go hungry again.” “Imagine it… hot pot. Sliced beef, mushrooms, spicy broth…” I groaned. “Stop! Please. If I don’t die of a zombie bite, I’m going to die of longing for a hot meal.” The thought of my brother—the perpetual slacker—and his high school nemesis, Grayson, working together to cook noodles with their superpowers was a vivid, hilarious image. For the first time in weeks, I felt a spark of real hope. 4 In the “group chat,” I asked Jax nervously, “How much further?” “Almost there. Take a right at the next intersection. Grayson’s place is in that gated community up the hill. It’s a fortress. High walls, electrified wire… wait…” His mental voice trailed off, thick with hesitation. I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white. “What is it?” The chatter among the group turned grim. “Something’s wrong.” “It’s too quiet.” “I smell blood. A lot of it. And… others. Many others.” Jax’s voice was sharp with warning: “Stay sharp, Boss’s Girl. Stay close to us.” The dozen protectors tightened their circle around my car, their movements losing their clumsy edge and becoming predatory once more. As I turned the corner into the wooded drive leading to the estate, the scene was devastating. The manicured lawns were torn up, and several luxury SUVs were flipped over, their windows shattered and frames stained with dark, dried blood. And then, I saw them. Zombies. Dozens of them, shambling aimlessly near the gates. I slammed on the brakes, my heart freezing in my chest. Clearly, a massive battle had just taken place here. Jax spoke up: “Stay in the car, Riley. Don’t move. Brothers, guard the car. I’m going in to see if the Captain is still alive.” I reached for my wrist and pulled off a jade bracelet. I cracked the window just enough to slide it out. “Wait! Take this. It’s a token. My brother gave it to me for my birthday. He’ll recognize it.” Jax reached out with a trembling, gray hand. “Put it on my wrist, Boss’s Girl. You smell… too good. Please, hurry. I don’t know how much longer I can keep my mouth shut.” I snapped the bracelet onto his wrist and rolled the window up in a heartbeat. Jax looked at the jade. “Wait a minute. I know this bracelet. I was with Grayson when he bought this at the mall. It cost him a fortune. He spent hours picking the perfect one.” I blinked, stunned. “What? Brooks gave it to me. He said it was from him.” Jax’s mental voice grew heated. “That little thief. Brooks totally stole the credit.” Thinking of my brother—always the charming rogue, always bickering with Grayson—it made perfect sense. I felt a weird mix of annoyance and a flutter of something else in my chest. Jax shook his head. “I’m going. Stay safe. Pray the Captain is still in there.” I sat in the car, clutching my friend’s cat—who had been hiding under the seat—and waited. Minutes felt like hours. Finally, Jax’s voice flickered back into my mind. “Wait! Don’t shock me! Look at my wrist! Just look at the bracelet! Grayson, I found her! Can you hear me, you idiot?” My heart leaped into my throat. Jax had found him, but Grayson couldn’t hear the thoughts. He just saw a zombie charging at him. Jax was in trouble. 5 “Hold it! Stop!” Inside the villa, Grayson Pierce grabbed Brooks’s arm, forcing the electrified baton down. Brooks, his eyes wide with adrenaline, struggled against him. “What are you doing? That’s Jax—or what’s left of him! Don’t be a martyr, Gray. He’s gone. He’s just a hungry corpse now.” Grayson’s bloodshot eyes were fixed on the zombie’s wrist. “Look at the bracelet, Brooks. Isn’t that the one you ‘bought’ for Riley?” Brooks froze, his face going pale. “That’s hers. Oh god… what did that monster do to my sister? I’ll kill him!” Grayson shoved Brooks back against the wall. “Think for a second! He’s not attacking. He’s pointing at the bracelet. He’s trying to tell us something.” “You’re dreaming,” Brooks hissed. “They’re mindless. He probably killed her and took it as a trophy.” Grayson grabbed Brooks by the collar, his voice a low growl. “Look at him! Has he tried to bite you? He’s fighting it. He’s still in there, Brooks. I know it.” Grayson turned to the zombie that used to be his best friend. His heart was breaking. Twenty-four hours ago, they had been brothers-in-arms. Now, they were hunter and prey. He stepped forward, wary. “Jax? If you can hear me… what are you trying to say?” Jax looked like he was about to burst into tears. “Finally! Yes! Follow me, man! Just follow me! Your Holy Grail is right outside!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402444”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

My boyfriend has been acting incredibly strange lately. It isn’t just that he’s been remarkably… attentive in the bedroom every night. It’s the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not watching—a gaze full of a dark, brooding resentment, as if he’s mourning me while I’m still standing right there. I was beginning to think he was having some sort of mid-life crisis at thirty, until I heard the Voice. I was lounging on the sofa, half-dreading the next page of my script, when a mechanical, digitized voice cut through the silence of the room. It was talking to him. [Host, the female lead’s “First Great Love”—the one who got away—is returning tomorrow. This isn’t a drill. History is about to repeat itself.] [This is a “Second Chance Romance” story. You? You’re just the placeholder. The cannon fodder. The guy who keeps the seat warm until the hero comes home.] [I know it hurts, but you have to accept reality. You aren’t the man she loves. You’re just the man she’s with.] [Walk away now. If you leave today, you can at least keep your dignity.] I froze. My heart hammered against my ribs. I looked around the penthouse, but Roman was in the kitchen. Then, his voice drifted through the doorway—low, cold, and dripping with a quiet, terrifying malice. “So what?” he whispered, his voice like a blade dragged over ice. “I don’t care if the glass is shattered. I don’t care about their ‘history.’ If she’s going to be whole again, I’m the only one who gets to glue the pieces back together.” 1 The sound of his voice—and that other voice—was so sudden I jumped, the heavy script slipping from my hands and smacking me right in the face. I scrambled into a sitting position, eyes darting around. The room was empty. Just me and the mid-afternoon sun filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows. But the conversation hadn’t stopped. [How do you not get it? She doesn’t love you, Roman!]The Voice sounded frustrated now, like a glitchy Siri with an attitude.[She only agreed to the engagement because of the family merger. It was a business deal for her.] Roman’s response was a bored, indifferent hum. “Mhm. Tell me something I don’t know.” The System: […] [Sebastian is coming back specifically to win her back. You’re the obstacle in a best-seller, Roman. Give it up while you’re ahead.] [Lest you forget, they only broke up because of you in the first place! If she ever finds out what you did, do you really think she’ll stay? The ‘Main Character Energy’ is with him. You can’t fight the narrative.] There was a long, suffocating silence. Then, Roman’s voice came back, freezing the air in my lungs. “Then let’s see the narrative try to stop me.” … From the fragments of that bizarre exchange, a localized reality began to settle in my mind. I was living in a trope. My life was a “Second Chance” novel. I was the Leading Lady, destined to reunite with my tragic ex. And my current fiancé, Roman Blackwood? He was just the guy in the way. The temporary fix. I wanted to hear more, to understand how I was hearing a ‘System’ inside Roman’s head, but the bathroom door swung open. I turned and collided with Roman’s sharp, piercing gaze. Steam still clung to his skin, making his features look even more severe, more angular. His silk robe was tied loosely, droplets of water tracing the hard lines of his chest and disappearing into the shadows of his abdomen. We had been together—intimately—many times since the engagement. But every time he looked at me like this, my face still burned. I quickly looked away, my pulse tripping. And then, that electronic buzz returned. [See? Total lack of interest. She won’t even look at you.] The temperature in the room plummeted. I could feel Roman’s eyes on the back of my head, a gaze so intense it felt like it could pierce skin. [Our heroine is a one-man woman, Roman. You could stand in front of her completely naked and she’d still be thinking about the guy who left.] I: … Excuse me? I wasn’t being a saint; I’d looked, I’d touched, and I’d definitely enjoyed it. [I don’t know where you get the audacity. Once Sebastian shows up, you’re getting the pink slip. Just watch.] I felt like I was sitting on a bed of nails. The script in my lap felt like a hot coal. I couldn’t stand the tension, so I forced myself to turn back and look at him. I searched my brain for something—anything—to say. “Um… do you want me to dry your hair?” Before Roman could even open his mouth, the System shrieked in my ear. [Are you kidding me?! Is this how you treat her? Like she’s your maid?] [Where is your sense of service? Being near her is a privilege, you arrogant prick!] [When Sebastian was around, she never had to lift a finger. He used to peel her shrimp for her, for god’s sake!] [Just step down, Roman. Make way for the real couple.] I was genuinely floored. I’d known Roman for years, and he was usually the one doing the chewing out. I’d never heard anyone—or any thing—speak to him with such utter contempt. Roman’s expression didn’t flicker. His lips didn’t move. But his internal retort echoed in my skull with its usual mocking bite: “She hates shrimp. Your ‘hero’ didn’t even know that.” The System paused, then sputtered: [Impossible! She always looked happy when he did it!] “Idiot.” I wasn’t sure who he was calling an idiot—the System or the ex. While I was lost in a daze, Roman had walked over to me. He took the hairdryer from my hand and said in a clipped, neutral tone: “I have some files to go over. Go to sleep first.” He turned toward the study. The System started up again, relentless. [Look at you. You know she likes the ‘Golden Boy’ type—warm, sunny, gentle. And here you are, acting like a human ice cube.] [No wonder you’ve been pining for eight years and haven’t made a dent. You’re a fraud. I despise you!] Eight years? 2 Finding out my life was a plot point in a commercial novel was surreal enough. Finding out that Roman Blackwood had been secretly in love with me for eight years? That was bordering on the impossible. I’m two years older than Roman. If the System was right, he’d been pining for me since he was eighteen. But we barely had a history before the merger. We’d seen each other at galas, traded maybe ten sentences in a decade. Even when our families brought up the alliance, I wasn’t the first choice. The offer was originally for my younger sister, Beatrice. She was his age, the “perfect” socialite, the polished heir. But Beatrice had thrown a fit, refusing to be “sold off,” and so the burden fell to me—the quiet daughter who lived in scripts and film sets. I had always assumed I was the consolation prize. The runner-up. When Roman suggested we skip the wedding for a while and just stay engaged to “get to know each other,” I didn’t object. For eighteen months, we’d gone through the motions of a modern power couple. Our bodies were intimately acquainted, but our hearts remained at a polite, lukewarm distance. Roman was cold. He didn’t laugh. He barely talked. And his temper? It was legendary. Shortly after the engagement, my father sent me to his office to deliver some papers. I’d stopped outside his door, paralyzed by the sound of him obliterating his senior staff. “Is this a report or a ransom note? The only thing correct in this entire pile is the page numbers.” “Does your job description involve anything other than keeping your chair warm?” “I don’t pay you this much to see how smooth you can keep your cerebral cortex.” The employees had filed out looking like they’d been through a war zone. It terrified me. From that day on, I made sure never to poke the bear. I stayed out of his way, handled my own problems, and tried to be the “low-maintenance” fiancée. It had worked. He’d never yelled at me. But he certainly didn’t seem like a man in love. Maybe the System was glitching. Or maybe I was just hallucinating from the stress of my upcoming shoot. Yes, I told myself, pulling the duvet over my head. A good night’s sleep and the voices will disappear. 3 I was wrong. The next morning, I was jolted awake by a digitized snark-fest. [You’ve been staring at her for thirty minutes. Are you trying to be late for work?] Roman’s voice was lazy, heavy with morning grit. “I’m the boss.” The System went silent for a beat. [God, I hate the 1%. I really do.] [So what if you’re the boss? She still doesn’t love you. Hehehe…] This time, it was Roman who fell silent. “If you can’t say something useful, go bark at a wall.” The System: […] [So mean. No wonder she’s indifferent.] I used every ounce of my acting training to pretend I was still asleep. It was the performance of my life. By the time I finally “woke up,” Roman had already made breakfast. Exactly one portion. He sat there, eating a few bites, then habitually pushed the rest toward me. [Aha! I knew it! You only make one portion so you can have the ‘honor’ of eating her leftovers!] [You’re a sick, twisted second-lead, aren’t you? This is your kink!] Roman bit into his toast. “If you’re that bored, go lick a frozen pole.” The System: […] I choked on my water, coughing violently. Roman was up in a second, his hand firm but surprisingly gentle as he patted my back. “Slow down,” he said, his voice as calm as a deep lake. “No one’s taking it from you.” My face flushed a deep crimson. At the start of our engagement, he did make two portions. But as an actress, I was constantly on a strict diet for roles, and I could never finish. Eventually, he started making one “mega-plate”—nutrient-dense, beautifully plated. I’d eat what I needed, and he’d finish the rest so nothing went to waste. I’d always thought it was just practical. Now, thanks to the System, it felt… intimate. Charged. After breakfast, my assistant, Jade, arrived to take me to the studio. I had a cover shoot for a major fashion magazine—a long-scheduled event. I certainly didn’t expect to run into my ex, Sebastian Hart. He wasn’t the broke, struggling musician I’d dated years ago. He was a global icon now. He was wearing a vintage leather jacket, his dark hair swept back, his eyes sharper, harder than I remembered. For a second, I didn’t recognize the man who had once written songs for me in a cramped studio apartment. Then he spoke, and the years melted away. “Nora. It’s been a long time.” Remembering what the System said about “Second Chance Romances,” I felt a spike of anxiety. I nodded with cold professionalism. “Sebastian. Good to see you.” His smile faltered. His eyes darkened with a familiar, wounded look. I had no intention of catching up, so I tried to walk past him. But he wasn’t having it. He caught my wrist, his grip firm. “Nora, please. Don’t talk to me like I’m a stranger.” I frowned, trying to pull away. “Let go, Sebastian.” He was stubborn. He always had been. “We need to talk. Five minutes.” “There’s nothing to say. Let go.” [Oh my god! Touching already? The plot is moving so fast!]The Voice was practically squealing.[That’s my hero! So much more chemistry than the Ice King!] I stiffened. A second later, a voice like a sub-zero wind echoed down the hallway. “She told you to let go. Are you deaf, or just stupid?” 4 Roman was standing at the end of the corridor in a charcoal suit, looking like he’d stepped out of a nightmare. While Sebastian was distracted, I yanked my arm free and practically ran to Roman’s side. Only when I reached him did I realize his gaze was fixed entirely on Sebastian. Their eyes met, and the air between them practically hummed with lethal intent. The System was vibrating with excitement. [YES! The ‘Aggressive Competition’ trope! Fight for her! Tear each other apart! I live for this!] [The hero has arrived! Time for the redemption arc!] [Wait… look at her wrist. It’s red. Sebastian, you brute, you’re losing points for being too rough!] Roman looked down, his eyes landing on my wrist where Sebastian had gripped me. He reached out, his thumb grazing the reddened skin with a touch so light it was almost a ghost. When he looked back at Sebastian, his voice was terrifyingly calm. “Mr. Hart. I realize you’ve been out of the country, but let me refresh you on the local customs.” “In this city, grabbing my fiancée like that is considered harassment. With the right lawyer, it’s a quick way to spend five to ten days in a cell.” He hit the word fiancée with the weight of a sledgehammer. Sebastian’s face paled for a fraction of a second, but he recovered with a smug, easy grin. He stepped closer, acting as if they were just chatting over drinks. “Congratulations are in order then, Mr. Blackwood.” “But an engagement is just a promise, isn’t it? It’s not a contract.” “And even contracts can be voided. People change their minds every day. Don’t you think?” The air turned to lead. I stared at Sebastian, shocked by his blatant audacity. The System was pouring gas on the fire. [The reunion! From this moment on, the countdown to the ‘Broken Mirror Reunited’ begins!] [True love never truly dies. Even if they strayed, they’re destined to find their way back.] [You can use a ring to tie her down, Roman, but you can’t make her love you.] [Look at Sebastian declaring war for love! So dreamy!] Roman’s face was turning a shade of pale that usually preceded someone getting fired—or worse. I stepped in before he could do something we’d both regret. “My fiancé and I are very happy, Sebastian. You don’t need to concern yourself with my life.” I grabbed Roman’s hand and pulled him toward the exit. We got to the car in silence. Roman gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white. “What are you doing here?” I asked softly. He stared straight ahead. “I was in the neighborhood. Thought I’d check in.” The System chimed in gloomily: [‘In the neighborhood’ my ass. You heard they were meeting and you cancelled three board meetings to fly down here in a panic.] [You’re such a fraud, Roman. An insecure, villainous fraud.] [Look at you. Your heart is probably in eighty-eight pieces right now. Sucks to be the second lead, doesn’t it?] I swallowed hard and tried to explain. “I didn’t know he was going to be at the shoot. There’s nothing between us, Roman.” Roman turned his head. His expression had returned to its usual, unreadable mask of stone. “I know.” “He’s the past. The past doesn’t matter.” 5 After a short break, I was scheduled for a cameo in a new indie film. It was supposed to be a low-key ten-day shoot. The night before I was set to start, I got word that one of the leads had been dropped due to a scandal. His replacement? Sebastian Hart. Given his current superstar status, a role this small was beneath him. The only reason he’d take it was to be near me. I really didn’t understand the “System’s” obsession with us getting back together. Based on what I knew about myself, I wasn’t the type to look back. If a mirror breaks, you don’t try to glue it back together and risk cutting your hands; you buy a new one. I hesitated, wondering if I should tell Roman. He noticed my hesitation immediately. He set down his tablet and looked at me. “Something on your mind?” I told him about the casting change. He looked at me for a long beat. “And?” I blinked. “Does it… bother you?” Roman was quiet for a moment. “A little.” “But I’m not going to sabotage your career because of a man. I’m not going to ask you to quit just to make myself feel secure.” His eyes were incredibly sincere. It reminded me of a time early in our engagement. I was filming in a remote mountain range when a flash flood hit. The signals were down, the roads were washed out. I still don’t know how he did it, but Roman found me. I remember the sound of the helicopters cutting through the storm. Roman had stepped out into the biting wind, his dark coat whipping around him. He looked like a solid, immovable mountain in the middle of the chaos. That image had stayed with me for a long time. He had always respected my work. Even when my own father tried to force me to “retire” and become a full-time socialite after the engagement, Roman had been the one to shut him down. He was the one who adjusted his schedule to visit me on set, even if it meant working through the night on his private jet. My heart swelled with a sudden, sharp heat. I was about to say something—maybe something brave—when the System piped up. [Exactly! Love should be loud! Tell her how you feel, you idiot!] [Wait… hang on. You’re the villain. Why am I starting to root for you? No, focus! Team Sebastian!] Roman: “…” I bit my lip to keep from laughing and hurried out of the room. 6 On set, I was a ghost. I spent every second glued to Jade, terrified Sebastian would corner me again. But it didn’t happen. We were both busy, our schedules barely overlapping. Instead, Roman’s “casual” visits became strangely frequent. Five times in one week. Every time, his excuse was the same: “I had a meeting nearby.” The System was a relentless fact-checker. [Nearby? You went from New York to LA via a ‘stopover’ in Seattle? That’s some creative geography, Roman.] [Just admit you want to be her backpack. You’re obsessed. It’s pathetic.] Roman: … The last time he came, however, he actually was on his way to Australia and had a layover in the city. He’d brought me some of my favorite takeout. I was stuck in a scene and couldn’t get back to the hotel. I was planning to call him during the break, but Jade sent me a video first. It was filmed from a hidden angle in the hotel lobby. Roman and Sebastian were standing face-to-face. Roman was in his usual armor—a bespoke suit, back straight as a spear. Sebastian was still in his costume—a period piece—looking every bit the dashing hero. Sebastian spoke first. “You’re here a lot, Roman. What are you so afraid of?” Roman smiled—a thin, dangerous thing. “They say you only need to guard against thieves, not gentlemen. What does that tell you?” Sebastian didn’t flinch. He’d clearly grown a thicker skin during his years abroad. “I’ve heard you’re good with words, Roman. I’m not here to play games.” He took a step forward, closing the gap. “Years ago, one word from you ruined three years of my life. I was nobody then. I had to take it.” “But I’m standing here now to tell you: it’s a fair fight now. And I’m going to win.” The lobby lights were warm, but the atmosphere in the video was freezing. Roman, holding a thermal bag of food, didn’t even blink. “A ‘fair fight’ with a ghost? You’re a memory, Sebastian. Nothing more.” Sebastian’s eyes flashed. “A memory? If she’s really over me, why was she so desperate to push me away the other day? You know the truth, Roman. She never loved you. She loved the version of herself she was with me.” Roman didn’t move. But I could see his knuckles whitening around the handle of the bag. When he spoke, his voice was as steady as a heartbeat. “So what?” “She is my fiancée now.” “I am the first person she sees when she wakes up, and the last person she sees before she sleeps.” “She eats the food I cook. She wears the rings I buy. She lives in the life we built.” “And you? You’re just a guy she used to know.” Sebastian’s mask slipped. The smugness vanished, replaced by a raw, suppressed rage. “If you were that confident, you wouldn’t be hovering over her like a vulture,” Sebastian hissed. “You just caught her at a weak moment. I beat you once, and I’ll beat you again.” Roman actually laughed. It was a soft, pitying sound. “I don’t view her as a prize to be won, Sebastian. She isn’t a trophy. She isn’t a ‘win.’” With that, he walked right past a stunned Sebastian and out of the frame. The video ended. My phone was vibrating with a million exclamation points from Jade. JADE: IS THIS REAL LIFE? THE TENSION! THE DRAMA! JADE: Roman is a KING. That ‘So what?’ gave me chills! I’m officially a stan. JADE: But wait—what did Sebastian mean about Roman ruining his life for three years? What happened?

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The first time Gwen Sinclair cheated, she dragged her lover into the foyer of our penthouse, her eyes rimmed with a manic sort of red. “Do what you want with him,” she’d challenged, her voice trembling not with guilt, but with a terrifying kind of adrenaline. Because I loved her with a desperation that bordered on the pathetic, I chose to believe it was a momentary lapse in judgment. I forgave the unforgivable. The second time, I took matters into my own hands. I bought the man off, sent him to a different continent, and made it clear that if he ever touched American soil again, he’d find out exactly how much power the Wilder name carried. Then came the night of our engagement gala. Gwen didn’t come to me with an apology this time. She came with a blade. She pinned me against the mahogany desk in my study, her hand tightening around my throat, the cold tip of a stiletto knife pressing into the soft skin of my lower abdomen. “Where is Samuel?” she hissed, her breath smelling of expensive scotch and ruin. “He’s the father of my child, Bennett. Didn’t you know?” The room felt like it was tilting on its axis. “It was my fault,” she continued, her voice breaking. “I couldn’t control my feelings. If you want to be a monster, be one to me. Samuel is innocent. He doesn’t deserve your vendettas. Please… I’m begging you. Just let the baby be born safely, and I promise, I’ll never see him again.” She leaned in closer, her eyes searching mine for a mercy I no longer possessed. “You lost the ability to have children after the accident, didn’t you? Let’s just keep this one. We can raise him together. He’ll only ever know you as his father. That’s my vow to you.” The knife punctured my skin. A sharp, stinging heat blossomed across my stomach, followed by the wet warmth of blood soaking into my silk shirt. I looked at her—really looked at her—and smiled. Then, I told her exactly where Samuel Moore was hiding. … The heavy thud of the front door echoing through the house signaled her departure. I fumbled for my phone with shaking fingers, dialing a number I’d kept in my contacts like a glass-break emergency kit. “You were right,” I whispered into the receiver, my voice thin. “Can you still get me out?” On the other end, a woman cursed under her breath. Her tone was a mix of exasperation and pity. “You’re telling me this now? Bennett, I’m already at the gate for my flight to London. How am I supposed to help you from across the Atlantic?” “Harper, please.” “Bennett Wilder,” she sighed, her voice softening. “You’re the smartest man I know in a boardroom, but you’re a goddamn idiot when it comes to that woman. Did you trade all your common sense for a pretty face?” I pressed a hand against the wound on my belly, the pain a dull, rhythmic throb. “I’m sorry. I owe you. A thirty percent stake in the next development project—is that enough to make it worth your while?” There was a sharp intake of breath. Harper Ross was a shark, and I’d just dropped blood in the water. “Send me the time and the location,” she said, her professional veneer snapping back into place. “I’ll be there. And next time you want to screw over your life, make sure I’m the one you call first. I’m expensive, but I’m loyal.” I forwarded the entire wedding plan to Harper. She replied with a simple OK emoji. The house we’d built together, the one intended to be our marital home, was a wreck. Gwen had torn it apart in her rage, a perfect mirror of the state of my soul. I cleaned the wound as best I could, bandaged it with trembling hands, and stumbled out into the night. I had just checked into a discreet boutique hotel when Gwen’s name flashed on my screen. The roar of jet engines in the background was unmistakable, but it couldn’t drown out the sharp, defensive edge in her voice. “Ben? I’m on a private flight out of the country. I can’t be there tonight. Just… get some rest. I’m sorry about earlier. I was emotional. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She paused, perhaps waiting for me to comfort her. “Is it bad? Should I send a doctor over to the villa?” “Don’t bother,” I said, my voice cold and flat. Gwen’s tone instantly hardened. “Bennett, don’t do this. What happened with Samuel was an accident. I was—someone drugged my drink, and I thought he was you. It’s done now. I have to find him. You expect me to let the father of my child rot in some foreign gutter?” She scoffed. “You forgave me once before. Why are you making a scene now? Our wedding is in a week. Just take tonight to calm down.” I stared at my chat history with Harper, a grim sense of finality settling over me. “Don’t worry about the week,” I said. “There isn’t going to be a wedding.” “Gwen,” I added, “I told you once. I don’t do compromises on loyalty. Not anymore.” I was about to hang up when she exploded. “Not getting married? Are you joking? The gala is over, the papers are signed, the entire East Coast knows the Sinclair and Wilder families are merging! You’re going to threaten the merger over this?” “Bennett, we grew up together. You know who I am. I wouldn’t have betrayed you if I hadn’t been set up!” “They say three’s a crowd, but I’ve only made two mistakes. Once the baby is born, I swear Samuel will never cross your path again. Isn’t that enough?” A single tear escaped, hot and bitter, tracking down my cheek. I let out a jagged laugh. “So that’s the plan? I spend every day looking at a child that isn’t mine, a living, breathing reminder of every time you chose him over me? I can’t do it, Gwen. I’m sorry.” “Fine!” she screamed. “Remember you said that! Don’t you dare regret it when I’m gone! Look at any woman in my position—every CEO has a side piece. I gave you Samuel to deal with as you saw fit. I’ve been more than fair. If you can handle it, show up at the altar. If not, then get out. Do whatever the hell you want.” The line went dead. I looked at my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. I looked broken, pale, and entirely too young for the weight I was carrying. She had forgotten. She’d forgotten the car crash three years ago. She’d forgotten that the only reason I had a permanent scar on my abdomen—and the reason I could never give her a child—was because I had thrown my body over hers when the truck hit us. Suite 1214. This room used to be our sanctuary. She said it was where our best memories lived. Valentine’s Day, birthdays, anniversaries—we’d claimed this space as our own. But now, I was the only one left who remembered the ghosts. When my parents called, I knew she had already leaked the news of the “breakup” to them. “Bennett, honey, what is happening? Gwen says you’re calling off the wedding?” my mother asked, her voice hovering between panic and confusion. “This isn’t a game, son,” my father added. “You can’t just walk away from a merger of this scale.” I buried myself under the heavy duvet, my voice thick with unshed tears. “She’s pregnant. It’s not mine.” There was a heavy silence. Then, my father’s voice came back, lower this time. “Every woman makes mistakes, Ben. Just have her take care of it and—” “I’m not calling off the wedding,” I interrupted. “I’m just changing the bride. You remember Harper Ross.” My father’s advice died in his throat. My mother gasped so loud it echoed through the line. “Harper? Bennett, you two are rivals! She’s been trying to sink your firm since prep school. Have you forgotten the time she nearly got you expelled?” I smiled, though it felt more like a baring of teeth. “Exactly. That’s why I’m marrying her. I want to spend the rest of my life making her miserable. Or maybe she’ll do the same to me. Either way, it’ll be honest.” I didn’t sleep. The wound in my gut throbbed in time with my heartbeat, a constant, nagging reminder of Gwen’s “love.” At dawn, I called a broker to list the villa. I didn’t want the equity. I just wanted it gone. When I went back to pack my things, I saw Gwen’s private jet idling on the lawn. Inside the house, the walls told a story I hadn’t been invited to read. The photos I had carefully framed of us were gone. In their place were snapshots of her and Samuel. The glaciers in Iceland. The Eiffel Tower. The ruins of Notre Dame. Every place we had ever visited, she had taken him there to rewrite our history. She used to tell me she hated photos. She’d say that as a woman in power, she couldn’t afford to have her image used against her by competitors or the press. No matter how much I begged for a single portrait of us together, she refused. But for Samuel, she was an open book. I found them standing by the photo wall. Gwen was glowing, her hand resting on her barely-there bump. She looked younger, softer. “Samuel, when the baby is born, we’ll take him to all these places, okay?” she whispered. “He’s going to love it. Look, he just kicked! Can you feel it?” The sound of the door closing drew their attention. Samuel didn’t act like a tough guy. He immediately dropped to his knees, crawling toward me and grabbing the hem of my coat. “Bennett, please. It’s my fault. I broke my promise. I shouldn’t have come back, but I love her so much… I swear, once the baby is here, I’ll disappear. I won’t get in your way…” Before I could speak, Gwen let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Don’t apologize to him, Samuel. You were drugged, too. If anyone owes an apology, it’s me for putting you in this position.” She turned her gaze on me, her eyes like chips of flint. “Bennett, I found out who was behind the drugging. That company will be bankrupt within the month. Samuel is a victim here. You can’t blame him for a mistake he was forced into. I’m willing to overlook your behavior last night. Just apologize to him, and we can put this behind us.” I looked at her, and for the first time in twenty years, I felt absolutely nothing. No anger. No longing. Just a profound sense of absurdity. “I should apologize? Gwen, have you finally lost your mind?” Suddenly, Samuel’s grip on my waist tightened, his fingers digging directly into my bandaged wound. I let out a sharp, choked gasp, cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. The pain was blinding. I shoved him away instinctively. I didn’t use much force, but he tumbled backward, hitting the glass cabinet with a theatrical crash. “What are you doing?!” Gwen lunged at me, shoving me with all her strength. My head slammed into the sharp edge of the doorframe. The world went white. I felt the warm trickle of blood running down my temple. “I think you’re the one who’s lost it!” Gwen screamed, her voice distorted by rage. “He was humbling himself before you, I gave you an explanation, and you still act like a savage?” “Apologize. Now. Or you’ll see exactly what I’m capable of.” I gritted my teeth, swallowing the iron taste of blood and the crushing weight of betrayal. “Never.” “You want me to apologize to your plaything? In your dreams, Gwen.” “You ungrateful bastard!” Gwen’s face was contorted. she helped Samuel into the master bedroom, her touch infinitely tender. When she came back out, she didn’t come alone. She summoned the household staff. “Where are the security ties?” she demanded. “Mr. Wilder is having a breakdown. Let him sit out in the garden and clear his head.” “No one lets him up until I say so.” My eyes went wide. “Gwen, you’re insane! He’s a nobody, and you’re doing this to me? In the house I bought?” “The house you bought,” she whispered, leaning into my space, “but I’m the one who owns the air inside it.” She didn’t look back as the guards dragged me toward the terrace. My boots dragged on the hardwood, leaving a smear of blood from my head wound. As the heavy glass doors locked behind me, a crack of thunder split the sky. Within seconds, the clouds opened up, a torrential New England downpour drenching me to the bone. I slumped against the stone balustrade. The wounds on my head and stomach began to burn, then throb, then go numb. My consciousness began to fray at the edges. I looked at the guard standing under the eaves, his expression one of bored amusement. “Please…” I rasped, my voice barely audible over the rain. “Tell Gwen… I need a doctor. Please.” The guard gave me a mocking smirk. “Save it, kid. I’ve seen enough of your type’s drama. Ms. Sinclair just called her private physician for Mr. Moore. She’s a little busy right now.” I looked up at the second-floor balcony. Two silhouettes moved behind the sheer curtains. Then, the world went dark. Through the haze of my fever, I heard shouting. “Shit, he’s out! There’s blood everywhere!” Footsteps approached. An umbrella was held over me, blocking the relentless needles of rain. Gwen’s voice was like ice water. “Are you done playing the martyr?” “Anyone would think you were the one being mistreated here, Bennett. You need to learn some humility. This is for your own good.” The footsteps retreated. I heard her and Samuel talking near the door. “Gwen,” Samuel’s voice was a soft, manipulative purr. “He doesn’t look like he’s faking. Is this too much? He’s your fiancé. If his family finds out…” Gwen’s voice was firm. “I’ve spent years building this empire. I don’t answer to the Wilders anymore. He started this. You’re going to be here for the next eight months; I won’t have him bullying you. His ego needs to be broken.” I could almost see the smirk on Samuel’s face. “I heard these high-society marriages are just business. Is that how it is with you and Bennett?” The rain continued to lash against my face, cold and unforgiving. For a moment, I thought my heart had simply stopped. “To wear the crown, one must bear the weight,” Gwen said, her voice devoid of emotion. “Being a Sinclair means marriage is a strategic alliance I can’t escape. Since I have no choice, I accepted it. Bennett is handsome, he’s predictable, and compared to the other arrogant heirs out there, he was the best option.” Tears mingled with the rainwater, sliding into the dirt. Gwen’s voice changed then—it became warm, filled with a genuine affection I hadn’t heard in years.

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The Caldwell family was haunted by a legacy of early graves. Every man in their bloodline carried a genetic ticking clock—none had ever made it past thirty. My family’s lineage was the only antidote, a tradition of spiritual and physical tethering that kept the darkness at bay through marriage. But on the day of our wedding, Bennett Caldwell didn’t say “I do.” Instead, he reached into his tuxedo jacket, pulled out our marriage contract, and tore it to shreds in front of the entire congregation. He did it for her—his college sweetheart, the “one who got away” who had suddenly come back into his life. His mother rushed forward, her face pale with terror, trying to stop him. Bennett ignored her. He looked at me with eyes full of a localized, burning hatred. “Morgan, you’re nothing but a parasitic fraud,” he spat, his voice echoing through the cathedral. “My family has been bled dry by yours for nearly a century. You’ve tricked us with ghost stories and superstition to fund your lifestyle. Well, the free ride ends today.” Brooke, the woman standing at his side, leaned into him. She wore a smug, dismissive smile as she looked at me. “What are you still standing there for? Get out.” She adjusted her glasses, the light catching her “Dr. Brooke Stevens” name tag from the hospital. “I have a PhD in medicine, Bennett. Trust me, with real science on your side, you won’t just live past thirty—you’ll live to a hundred. You don’t need a witch.” I thought about Bennett’s pulse this morning. It had been a thready, fading vibration, barely a whisper against my fingertips. A cold, hard knot formed in my chest. Fine, I thought. His thirtieth birthday is in three days. We’ll see who’s right very soon. 1 I turned to leave, but Bennett’s mother, Mrs. Caldwell, grabbed my hand, her fingers trembling. “Morgan, please! Don’t go!” She spun toward her son, her voice cracking. “Bennett, apologize to her right now. Stop this madness!” Bennett didn’t move. He kept his hand firmly locked with Brooke’s. “You know exactly why we have this arrangement,” Mrs. Caldwell hissed, her voice dropping to a desperate whisper. “Thirty years ago, your uncle tried to break the cycle. He was crushed by a semi-truck on the morning of his thirtieth birthday. And your cousin? He laughed at the ‘curse’ just like you are now. He dropped dead of a massive hemorrhage the second he blew out his candles. You have three days left, Bennett! You are flirting with death!” “Enough, Mom!” Bennett roared. “Uncle Mark was an accident. My cousin had an undiagnosed heart condition. It has nothing to do with some backwoods ritual marriage!” He pointed a finger at me, laughing mockingly. “This ‘curse’ is a scam designed specifically to milk the Caldwell estate. I look at her and I feel sick. If you force me to marry this con artist, I won’t wait for my birthday. I’ll end it right now.” In a flash of dramatic instability, Bennett pulled a pocketknife from his vest and pressed the blade against his own throat. Brooke let out a sharp gasp and dropped to her knees before Mrs. Caldwell, sobbing. “Please, just trust the science for once! I’ve had Bennett on a state-of-the-art biometric monitor for weeks. His vitals are perfect! Let us prove it to you. I spent years in med school specifically so I could protect him from this nonsense. Give him a chance to be free!” “Mom, if you don’t back down…” Bennett pressed harder. A thin line of crimson bloomed on his neck, staining the white silk tie I had picked out for him myself. “I agree! Stop!” Mrs. Caldwell screamed. She lunged forward, wrestling the knife away from him, then turned to me with eyes full of agonizing guilt. “Morgan… I’m so sorry…” “It’s okay,” I said, cutting her off. I forced a small, sharp smile. “I truly hope Brooke can break the ‘curse.’ It would be nice for the women in my family to finally be free of yours.” I turned and walked out. Behind me, Bennett’s voice followed, thick with disgust. “Good riddance, you gold-digging bitch! Don’t let the door hit you!” I ran until I hit the humid air of the parking lot. The second the heavy doors closed, I doubled over. Cough. A mouthful of thick, black blood splattered onto the pavement. I should have stayed at the sanctuary for a few more years of training. But three years ago, when Bennett first took my hand and told me he loved me, I believed him. I was young, and his devotion felt like a sun I wanted to bask in. Even then, I could feel the weakness in his marrow through his pulse. Because I loved him, I had knelt before my mentor for seven days and seven nights, begging for permission to leave the mountain early to save him. For three years, I had sustained his life by siphoning his darkness into my own body, enduring the sensation of my internal organs being slowly ground to dust every single night. I thought it was a sacrifice for the man I’d spend my life with. I didn’t realize that his “love” was just a game—a cheap thrill to see if he could bed the “mystic girl” before he threw her away. I wiped the blood from my chin and ignored the stabbing pain in my chest. I just wanted to go home and sleep. But when I reached my apartment, the world shifted under my feet. The hallway was covered in red spray paint: SCAMMER. WITCH. SLUT. My front door was hanging off its hinges. Smoke billowed out. My sanctuary, the place I had carefully curated for three years, was being consumed by a roaring fire. 2 Inside that apartment were the journals and talismans I had spent years writing, using my own blood to anchor the protection spells that kept Bennett alive. I lost my mind. I sprinted toward the flames, desperate to save the only things that proved my sacrifice. But I only made it one step inside before a tongue of fire licked across my arm. The skin hissed and peeled away, exposing raw, weeping flesh. The salt from my tears hit the burn, and I screamed. “A little dramatic, don’t you think?” I spun around. Bennett was standing at the end of the hall, Brooke tucked under his arm. He was looking at my charred, bloody arm with a smirk. “Oh, I thought you were some kind of immortal goddess. Do you actually feel pain like the rest of us?” “Bennett, why?” I gasped, clutching my arm. “Everything in there… if those are gone, you don’t have a chance!” “Enough!” Bennett stepped forward and grabbed my throat, slamming me against the soot-covered wall. “Stop talking about your voodoo bullshit! It’s pathetic! I’m not just burning your toys, Morgan. I’m going to make sure the whole world knows what a fraud you are.” Before I could breathe, a swarm of reporters and paparazzi flooded into the narrow hallway. Cameras flashed, blinding me. “Ms. Thorne, how much money did you embezzle from the Caldwells over the last three years?” “Is it true you used ‘curses’ to blackmail a dying man into an engagement?” “You’re a criminal! You should be in jail!” A woman in the crowd reached out and grabbed my burned arm, twisting the raw flesh. I collapsed to the floor, my vision blurring into white-hot agony. Kicks landed on my ribs, my stomach, my back. Bennett just watched, laughing as he led Brooke away. By that evening, I was the top trending topic on social media. [Caldwell Heir’s Ex-Fiancée Exposed as Occult Con Artist! Hundreds of thousands of dollars stolen through ‘superstition’!] [Science Wins: Dr. Brooke Stevens Breaks Century-Long ‘Family Curse’!] I stumbled through the streets in my charred, ruined wedding dress. I tried to go to a department store to buy something—anything—to cover myself, but my card was declined. The automated voice on the phone was cold. “Ms. Thorne, your accounts have been frozen pending a fraud investigation. Please contact your branch…” I reached into my pocket and found a few crumpled twenties. I tried to check into a cheap motel, but the woman behind the desk recognized me from the news and spat on my shoes. “We don’t rent to lying hags. Get out!” I hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. My burns were beginning to fester. I felt the fever rising in my blood, a heavy, throbbing heat. I collapsed in an alleyway next to a dumpster, unable to take another step. Passersby who recognized me didn’t offer help. They threw trash. They poured old coffee on my wounds. I missed the mountains. I missed Arthur, my mentor. But I couldn’t leave yet. Tomorrow was Bennett’s birthday. When he had his hand on my throat, I had felt it. His pulse wasn’t just weak anymore. It was chaotic. Shattered. I needed to see the end. I dragged myself up, using the brick wall for support. I took one step, then another, before the world turned black and I pitched forward into the darkness. I woke up to the smell of dried sage and bitter herbs. I forced my eyes open, my body screaming in protest. Arthur was sitting beside me, his weathered hands carefully applying a poultice to my infected arm. “Arthur… I have to stay…” I wheezed. He looked at me with a heart-wrenching pity. “I know, child. You need to see the clock strike midnight.” He didn’t get to finish. The door to his small apothecary was kicked open with a violent crash. A dozen heavy-set men stormed in. They pinned me to the chair. The leader pulled a hunting knife from his belt and, without a word of warning, drove it straight into Arthur’s chest. 3 I let out a guttural scream and tried to lung toward him, but a hand clamped onto my hair and yanked me back. Bennett walked through the door, looking down at me with pure venom. “I wondered where you were hiding,” he said, stepping over Arthur’s slumped body. “So, this is the master puppeteer? The one who taught you how to bleed my family dry?” Bennett ground his heel into the wound in Arthur’s chest. Arthur gasped, blood bubbling at his lips. “Stop it! Let him go!” I sobbed, clawing at the floor. “He saved your life! You wouldn’t even be breathing right now if it weren’t for him!” Bennett leaned down, a cruel, twisted smile on his face. “Tell you what. I’ll give the old man a chance.” He pulled out his phone and shoved it in my face. “Record a video. Admit you’re a fraud. Tell the world you made up the curse to steal my money. Do it, and I’ll call an ambulance.” “Morgan, don’t…” Arthur shook his head, his eyes clouded with pain. Bennett didn’t hesitate. He pulled the knife out of Arthur’s chest and jammed it into the side of his neck, near the artery. A spray of hot, metallic blood hit my face. “Okay! Okay, I’ll do it! Just stop!” Bennett got his video. He was satisfied. Finally, he allowed his men to haul Arthur toward the hospital. When we arrived at the ER, a nurse rushed out, shoving a stack of paperwork into my hands. “He’s in critical condition! We need a deposit for the surgery immediately!” I froze. “My cards… they’re frozen. Please, he’s dying.” “Move it, honey! If we don’t get him into the OR now, he’s gone!” the nurse barked. I turned to Bennett. He was standing by the entrance, Brooke’s arm draped over his shoulder. “Bennett, please. You have the money. Pay the deposit. I did what you asked.” He laughed, a hollow, mocking sound. “Oh, you want a favor? You’ve been robbing my family for a hundred years, Morgan. A video doesn’t settle that debt. Get on your knees. Apologize to me and my ancestors.” I looked at Arthur, who was turning a terrifying shade of gray on the gurney. I didn’t care about my pride anymore. I dropped to the linoleum floor. “I’m sorry. I lied to you. Please, save him.” Brooke stepped forward, her voice sweet and poisonous. “An apology isn’t enough, sweetie. You need to beg. Properly. Give us a hundred kowtows. Let’s see that ‘spiritual’ devotion.” “You heard her,” Bennett said. “One hundred. Or he bleeds out right here.” I slammed my forehead against the hard floor. One. Two. The skin on my forehead broke. Blood ran into my eyes, blurring my vision. I lost sensation in my limbs. I just kept hitting the floor until I reached a hundred. I looked up, my head spinning. “There. Now pay. Please.” “Sure,” Bennett said with a shrug. “Let me just run home and grab my checkbook. I’ll be back.” He turned to leave. I lunged forward, grabbing his ankle. “You’re doing this on purpose! Bennett, he’s dying now!” “Careful, Morgan. That’s not a very grateful tone. Do you want the money or not?” I let go, my strength failing. “Please… just hurry.” Bennett returned an hour later. He tossed a receipt onto my lap. I scrambled to give it to the nurse, but she just looked at me with a heavy, tired sigh. “It’s too late. He’s gone. He went cold ten minutes ago.” The world stopped. I turned to Bennett, my vision tunneling into a red haze. I screamed, throwing a desperate, weak punch at his face. “You murderer! You did it on purpose! I’ll kill you!” Bennett caught my wrist effortlessly. His eyes were cold. “Kill me? You should worry about yourself. Now that you’ve confessed to being a fraud on video, let’s talk about restitution.” He threw a thick stack of invoices at my feet. “My family has supported yours for a century. Since you admitted it was all a scam, you owe us every cent back. With interest.” He waved his phone. “If you don’t pay, this video goes to the police. And I won’t just stop with you. I’ll go after your entire ‘clan.’ Every single one of them.” I gritted my teeth, my voice a jagged whisper. “I’ll pay. Just wait until after your birthday tomorrow. I’ll give you everything you’re owed.”

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Twenty years after my husband, Chris, supposedly had a vasectomy to support our child-free lifestyle, I found myself staring at a positive pregnancy test. I thought it was a miracle—a late-blooming gift from the universe. But then I found the truth. Chris didn’t just have a secret; he had an entire second life. He had a family on the other side of town, and a son with leukemia who desperately needed a bone marrow match. My “miracle” pregnancy wasn’t a gift to me; it was a biological harvest Chris had planned to save his other woman’s child. The shock sent me into a physical collapse. When I woke up in the hospital, my world felt like it had been razed to the ground. “I’m terminating it,” I whispered, the words tasting like ash. “I want this out of me. Now.” Chris didn’t yell. He didn’t even look me in the eye. He simply had the nurses restrain me to the bed “for my own safety.” Then came the vultures. My mother-in-law and the doctor stood over me, their voices a synchronized drone of manipulation. “It’s a life, Evelyn! Think of the karma,” his mother pleaded, her eyes cold despite the tears she forced. “Chris’s son is your son, too! This baby is already here; how can you be so heartless? If you hadn’t been so stubborn about your ‘career’ and your ‘independence’ all these years, none of this would have happened. Chris was backed into a corner…” I stopped fighting the restraints. I looked at Chris, whose eyes were red-rimmed. I thought it was guilt. I was wrong. “Go have another child with her then,” I said, my voice dead. “I’ll pay for it. Whatever the treatment costs, I’ll sign the check. Just let me go.” A flicker of disappointment, then something sharper—pity—crossed his face. “I tried,” he admitted, his voice cracking. “Jade… she’s had several miscarriages trying to give me a son. She can’t carry anymore. Her body is spent.” He leaned in closer, his shadow swallowing me. “The doctors say a half-sibling has a twenty-five percent chance of a perfect match. Evelyn, please. If you save my son, I’ll give you anything. Anything you want.” I turned my face toward the sterile white wall. The chill in my bones felt permanent. “I want a divorce. I’m leaving this hospital in a week, and I expect you to meet me at the lawyer’s office.” … My mother-in-law’s blood pressure must have hit the ceiling. she lunged forward as if to strike me, but Chris caught her arm. His brow furrowed, his jaw setting into that stubborn line I used to mistake for strength. “No,” he said firmly. “I won’t divorce you. Don’t even dream of it.” I let out a jagged laugh. We had been married for two decades; he knew that look on my face. He knew I was done. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed, his tone softening into that patronizing “reasonable man” voice he used in boardrooms. “Evie, we’ve spent half our lives together. Imagine the scandal. Do you really want to be the woman who blows up her life at forty-five?” “I know you feel slighted,” he continued. “But Jade… she’s not like you. She didn’t grow up with a silver spoon. She didn’t have your education or your family’s connections. She’s just a girl who gave me a son. It wasn’t easy for her. If you need someone to blame, blame me. But the boy is innocent. Don’t you see how cruel you’re being by holding this over me?” Cruel. The word felt like a slap. I touched my stomach, my mind drifting back twenty years. Back then, Chris was the one talking about the unfairness of fate. He was the brilliant, broke scholarship student my father had sponsored. I remember the day he lost a major contract—he had been standing in the pouring rain, begging for a chance to pitch. I was the one who held the umbrella over him and brought him home. A fallen genius. A man of integrity. Unyielding will. To the heiress of the Montgomery estate, he was a romantic tragedy I was desperate to rewrite. Naturally, he became the Montgomery son-in-law. His life became a series of wins. Back then, I never wanted to be child-free. I was obsessed with him; I wanted a little piece of us to carry on. When I first got pregnant, Chris cried with joy. “But Chris,” I had told him, “my parents want the first child to carry the Montgomery name. After that, we can have as many as you want. What do you think?” A shadow had passed over his face, so brief I thought I imagined it. “Evie, are you sure you’re ready to be a mother?” he had asked, his voice dripping with faux-concern. “I just… I don’t want to see you suffer. It would break my heart.” I was so moved. I told him I wasn’t afraid. But the pregnancy was a nightmare. I couldn’t keep anything down. Two weeks later, I was doubled over in pain. Chris went frantic, rushing me to the ER, but we lost the baby anyway. He stayed by my side all night. The next morning, he was sobbing, hitting his own forehead. “It’s my fault. I put you through this. No more, Evie. Let’s just be us. We’ll be ‘DINKs.’ I can’t lose you.” I insisted I was willing to try again, but he wouldn’t hear of it. He said I had already given him enough, that I was his whole world. To prove his devotion, he told me he went to the clinic for a vasectomy that same week. For twenty years, he was the model husband, always “careful,” always protecting my health. Even his parents seemed to accept it, never pressuring me for an heir. They even bought us a Border Collie, Lucky, telling us to treat him like our son. I was so naive. I thought he had fought his traditional parents for me. Hearing his mother’s vitriol now, I finally understood. He didn’t want no children; he just didn’t want my children. Being the “sponsored” son-in-law was the thorn in his side. Letting a child carry my family name was the ultimate emasculation to him. He had orchestrated everything. I was the engine that drove his career, the bank that funded his lifestyle. And Jade? She was the quiet harbor where he could be the “provider,” the man whose name would be passed down. Now that my parents were dead and I had no family left to protect me, he was ready to use me one last time. He wanted me to endure a high-risk pregnancy just to provide spare parts for his “real” legacy. The humilation burned like acid. “The boy is innocent?” I spat. “To save your secret son, you’re willing to risk my life and the life of this baby. Tell me, Chris—who’s the cruel one here?” Chris flinched. “It’s not like that. I’ll hire the best doctors in the country. You always wanted a child, didn’t you? Why can’t you look at the bright side? You’ll both be fine, and then we can all be a family.” I looked at him, truly seeing the stranger he had become. “A family? You mean a harem? You expect me to live in some twisted sister-wife arrangement?” Chris walked toward the door, his voice heavy with a self-righteous burden. “Jade has never wanted to take anything from you. I still love you, Evelyn. You will always be my wife. But you need to be the bigger person here. This baby stays.” He left the room, posting two private security guards at my door. They weren’t there to protect me; they were there to ensure I didn’t find a way to a clinic. I didn’t waste another second. I picked up the phone and dialed my lawyer. “Lee, if he refuses to sign, what are my options?” He gave me a direct answer. There was a way out, but I had to wait a week for the paperwork to be ironed out. The next day, Chris didn’t show up. Lee, who has a reach as long as his career, sent me photos. Chris was with Jade. He must have told her the news. In the video clip, Jade was weeping with joy, throwing her arms around Chris in a crowded cafe. I shut the screen, unable to watch. I tried to distract myself with social media, but then I saw my mother-in-law’s profile. The “sweet, traditional” woman had undergone a personality transplant. She had posted a flood of videos featuring a young boy—her “beloved grandson.” I realized then that every holiday Chris was “working late,” he was actually with them. Her latest post was a video of her crying to the camera, calling me the “most wicked daughter-in-law in history.” She had even photoshopped my face onto a funeral portrait. She told her followers that I was an ungrateful woman who was refusing to save her dying grandson out of spite. The comments were a bloodbath. Strangers were calling for my head, calling me a monster, a “barren ice queen.” Thinking of my late parents—who had loved Chris like a son—my rage boiled over. I commented directly: “He isn’t my son. Why is his life my responsibility?” She replied instantly: “How heartless! Is this what a mother says?” My DMs exploded. I threw the phone across the room, shaking. But she wasn’t done. She sent me a voice note, her voice a shrill hiss: “You’re evil! I said nothing but the truth! A husband is your king, and his child is yours! It’s your duty to save him! If you hadn’t nagged Chris into that surgery, he wouldn’t have had to go elsewhere for a family! This is your fault! My poor grandson is suffering because of your ego!” I couldn’t listen anymore. The pregnancy hormones made it impossible to stop the tears. The whole world was telling me I was a criminal for not wanting to be a human incubator for a mistress’s child. A bowl of chicken soup appeared in my field of vision. Chris was back, looking disheveled. He reached out to wipe a tear from my cheek. “You’re still the same,” he murmured. “Always crying when you’re pregnant.” The memory hit me like a physical blow. Twenty years ago, when I was throwing up everything, he had learned to make this exact soup. I had forced myself to eat it, touched by his devotion. I remembered the night before my miscarriage. He had looked at me with such hesitation. I had asked him what was wrong, and he had just pulled me into his arms and sobbed, “I’m so sorry I’m making you suffer. We don’t need a baby. Just you and me.” I thought he was a fool who loved me too much. But I was the fool. His “devotion” was guilt. He hadn’t been worried about my health; he had been struggling with the fact that he was actively sabotaging our child because of a bruised ego over a surname. I looked at the man I had loved for two decades and realized I had never known him at all. “Chris,” I whispered, “why didn’t you just talk to me? My parents just wanted the first one to have our name. We could have had three more. I gave you everything—my life, my money, my family’s legacy. And you couldn’t even give me the truth?” I slapped the bowl of soup out of his hand. It shattered against the floor. “I’m going to make you lose everything, Chris. Just wait a week.” His face darkened. “What the hell is wrong with you?” A slender woman rushed into the room, frantically trying to clean up the mess. “Chris, don’t be angry. It’s my fault. The soup probably didn’t smell right to Evelyn.” I froze. It wasn’t Chris coming to see me. It was the two of them, putting on a show of “kindness.” Jade was beautiful in a fragile, wilted sort of way. Looking at her, I felt ancient. My youth had been spent building an empire Chris now sat upon. I didn’t have that “damsel in distress” look. Chris didn’t even look at me. He was too busy checking Jade’s hands for burns. When she winced, he looked like someone had stabbed him. “I’m fine, Chris,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward me. “Evelyn’s health is what matters.” She gestured toward the door. A small, pale boy with a shaved head walked in. “Noah, come here. Say hello to Mrs. Bennett.” The boy looked sullen. Jade led him to my bedside and, before I could react, she took his small, cold hand and pressed it against my stomach. “Noah, feel that? There’s a little brother in there. He’s going to save you. Just a few more months, and the pain will go away.” Her words were like poisoned needles. Even if I kept this baby, you can’t take bone marrow from a newborn. She was talking about an experimental cord blood procedure—or worse. She was looking at my child as a medical resource. I looked at Chris. He was smiling at them, a look of pure paternal pride on his face. He didn’t see anything wrong with what she said. “Chris… are you planning an eye for an eye?” I asked. “What if the match fails? What if I refuse to go through with it?” Chris’s expression turned to stone. “There is no ‘if.’ This is happening.” “I have a heart condition, Chris! A high-risk pregnancy at my age could kill me! And I will never let my child be a sacrifice for anyone!” “This child,” I pointed at the boy, “is not my problem. His illness is the result of your lies!” “Shut up!” Chris roared, slamming a glass against the nightstand. His eyes were wild. He immediately turned back to Jade, pulling her and the boy into a protective embrace. Jade sobbed into his shoulder, covering the boy’s ears. “Chris, it’s my fault,” she wailed. “I’m useless. I couldn’t give you a healthy son. Evelyn has every right to hate me, but Noah is just a child! If I could take his place, I would… I just wanted her to have some nutrients. I see now… you were just trying to spare my feelings because she said no. It’s okay, Chris. This is just our fate…” The “soft” attack worked instantly. Chris looked more panicked than I’d ever seen him. “Jade, listen to me. I won’t let anything happen to Noah. I promise. I love you both. We’re going to Europe after this, remember? I have the money, I have the power. Not even God is taking my son from me!” He had forgotten one thing. The money and the power? They were mine. “Let’s stop the theater, Chris,” I said, my voice cold as a grave. “Sign the papers and let’s end this.” Chris ignored me. He moved Jade and Noah into a VIP suite down the hall and came back to my room. “Don’t ever speak like that in front of Jade again,” he warned. “She blames herself enough. And for the last time, I am not divorcing you. Everyone knows I am where I am because of your father. I’m grateful for that. But look at any man in my position—we all have someone on the side. I’m telling you, you will always be my wife. Isn’t that enough?” “A seat at the table you stole from me?” I mocked. The boy I loved was gone. In his place was a narcissist who thought he was doing me a favor by letting me keep my title. From the moment my parents died, he had dropped the mask. He had cried louder than me at the funeral, posing for the cameras. A month later, he had maneuvered through my father’s old connections and diluted my shares in the company before I could even process my grief. He told me it was to “protect me from the stress.” The next day, I stood by the window, clutching the divorce papers Lee had smuggled in. I was rehearsing my final words. A tug on my sleeve broke my concentration. It was Noah. “Ma’am? Dad took Mom out for a walk. He said you were supposed to stay with me while I did my treatment.” I looked out the window. Chris was leading Jade toward the garden. The boy looked so small, so fragile. I felt a flicker of pity. Back in the ward, Noah whimpered in pain, begging for some candy from the gift shop downstairs. My heart softened. I told him I’d be right back. But when I returned five minutes later, the bathroom door was open. Noah was standing under a freezing cold shower, fully clothed, sobbing into a video call with Jade. “Mom, I’m so cold! Mrs. Bennett told me the cold water would make me stronger, but it hurts!” I dropped the candy. I rushed in to wrap him in a towel, but it was too late. Within minutes, Chris and Jade burst in. Noah threw himself into Jade’s arms, shivering. “Mom, I was brave! Mrs. Bennett gave me candy for doing it!” He looked at me with those wide, innocent-looking eyes. “Dad, don’t be mad at her. I’m a big boy.” Jade dropped to her knees, sobbing and banging her head on the floor. “Evelyn, I’m sorry! Hit me instead! The boy is innocent! If you don’t want to save him, fine, but please don’t hurt him! He has no immune system; the cold will kill him!” I reached out to pull her up, but Chris lunged forward. He shoved me back so hard I hit the wall, and then he backhanded me across the face. The world went silent. My ears rang. “I told you it was my fault!” Chris screamed. “Why would you take it out on a child? You want to end my bloodline that badly?” I held my burning cheek, my stomach tightening in a cramp. “He did it himself. I didn’t touch him!” “I don’t want to hear your lies! Apologize to Jade and Noah. Now!” He gathered his “real” family. There was no room for me in that circle. I started to laugh. It was a jagged, hysterical sound. I pulled out a document—the one Chris had left for me to sign regarding the bone marrow compatibility tests. I flipped to the last page. “Fine. You want the tests done the second this baby is viable? I agree. Sign it.” Chris, blinded by rage and disgust, didn’t even look at the header. He scribbled his name and threw the pen at me. “You should have done this from the start! If anything happens to Noah, I’m done with you!” I walked out of the room, clutching the paper. It wasn’t a medical consent form. Lee had swapped it. It was a binding, no-contest divorce settlement and a full transfer of the remaining Montgomery assets Chris had tried to hide. “Chris,” I said, stopping at the door. “Do you remember how I haven’t touched cold water since the miscarriage?” He didn’t look up. He didn’t follow me. I left a copy of the actual divorce papers on my hospital bed and went straight to the airport. As the plane took off, my phone lit up with dozens of missed calls. A flight attendant kindly helped me answer one. Chris’s voice came through, sounding like a terrified child. “Evie? Evie, I’m sorry. Where are you…”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “402446”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

When the man who was supposed to be the “protagonist” of her life finally appeared, Madeline and I already had a child. I couldn’t fight the script. Once, she had been willing to burn her entire world down—breaking off a high-society engagement—just to be with me. But then the shift happened. Suddenly, she looked at me with a soul-deep loathing, as if my very existence was a stain on her life. Eventually, I just broke. I let go of the love that had become a noose, walked away from the wreckage, and even left our daughter behind. Until a Tuesday evening, six years later. A small, solemn girl knocked on my door. She stood there with her face set in a mimicry of adult stoicism and said: “My mom doesn’t want me anymore. Can I stay with you?” 1 I froze, the words dying in my throat. Sophie pouted, her brow furrowing with impatient displeasure. She tilted her beautiful little face up and spoke with the precision of someone reciting a textbook. “My teacher said that parents have a legal and moral obligation to provide for their children…” I opened the door the rest of the way, cutting off her prepared speech. Stepping aside, I said quietly, “Come in.” The amber glow of the hallway lamp caught the slight widening of her eyes. They shimmered with an emotion I couldn’t name. She lifted her chin, let out a tiny, haughty “Hmph,” and marched inside. As I closed the door, I watched her. She was trying to look casual, but her eyes were darting everywhere, taking in my modest apartment. When she caught me watching, she gripped the straps of her backpack until her knuckles turned white. “My name is Sophie,” she said. It sounded like an introduction, but it felt like a reminder. A reminder that she was the daughter I had shared with Madeline. I knew. I had known the second I saw her. She was a carbon copy of the woman who had shattered my heart. Sophie seemed disappointed by my lack of a grand reaction. She looked away, her little shoulders tensing. I took her small backpack, set it on the bench in the entryway, and led her to the sink. “Let’s eat first,” I said. She gave a quiet “Okay.” By the time I brought the food out, she had already scrambled onto a chair. I asked her why she had suddenly decided to find me. Sophie poked at a piece of broccoli in her bowl, her head bowed. Her hair was dark and thick, just like her mother’s. Her voice came out muffled. “We had a fight. She started breaking things and told me to get out. She said she never wanted me to come back.” A childhood tantrum, then. A runaway. Madeline would probably be here to collect her within the hour. It made sense. Six years ago, the prestigious Jackson family—her family—had fought me tooth and nail for custody. They wouldn’t just throw her away now. My fork paused halfway to my mouth. I didn’t know what I was feeling. I hadn’t expected a guest, so dinner was just simple stir-fry and soup. Sophie, it turned out, was a surgical eater. She spent ten minutes picking out every trace of onion and carrot until there was nothing left on her plate but white rice. She stared at the mangled vegetables with a look of profound betrayal, stole a glance at me, and then guiltily swallowed a mouthful of rice. She had arrived with a shield of arrogance and pride, but seeing her struggle with a piece of broccoli made me realize she had likely been raised in a world where every whim was met. She hadn’t been mistreated. I felt a small, bitter relief. After finishing the dishes, I sat down to wait for the car Madeline would inevitably send. I waited until nine-thirty. A six-year-old’s internal clock is relentless. She pulled a pair of pajamas out of her bag, looked around the one-bedroom apartment, and pressed her lips together. “There’s only one bed,” she noted. “Am I supposed to squeeze in with you?” I looked at the clock. For some reason, the black SUVs hadn’t arrived. “Yeah,” I sighed. “You’re with me tonight.” I expected a meltdown. This cramped apartment was a far cry from the sprawling estate she was used to. But Sophie just bit her lip, her eyes flickering. She washed her face, grunted as she struggled into her pajamas, and climbed onto the bed herself. She had complained about the vegetables, too, but she’d eaten them in the end. Now, she burrowed into the duvet until she was a small mound of fabric. She produced a book of fairy tales from somewhere, peeked out from the covers, and whispered, “Aren’t you going to read to me?” She actually looked… happy. 2 After Sophie fell asleep, I pulled up a contact in my phone I hadn’t touched in years. I stared at Madeline’s name for a long time. I didn’t call. We had been apart for six years. In the beginning, we thought we could outrun destiny. My family had gone bankrupt overnight; hers had immediately moved to marry her off to a man named Victor. She had fought them. She had broken her engagement to Victor for me. I thought we were going to be the exception. I thought the bankruptcy would pass, that we would be okay. We got married in secret. We were happy, for a while. Then, on the eve of Sophie’s birth, everything changed. Madeline was rushed to a different hospital by her family. When she woke up, the woman I loved was gone. In her place was a stranger—cold, indifferent, and eventually, cruel. I didn’t understand how someone could change so fundamentally between sunsets. The way she looked at me went from adoration to a visceral disgust. Victor came to see me once. He was the one who told me the “truth” of our world. He spoke about “narrative corrections” and “protagonists.” He told me that because the intended “Male Lead”—him—had arrived late, the world had to fix the mistake. The price of that fix was the reversal of the heroine’s feelings. The more she had loved me, the more she was now forced to hate me. Victor looked at me with a sickening kind of pity. Before he left, he asked, “Have you thought about what will happen to your child in a world that doesn’t want you?” I went numb. I didn’t know who to hate. Madeline? She didn’t even seem to own her own mind anymore. Fate? Hate is useless against a force you can’t touch. Around that time, my parents were in a catastrophic car accident. They were left in comas, likely brain-dead. I was spiraling, Victor’s words echoing in my head like a death knell. The world felt like a sick joke I was tired of playing. One afternoon, I opened a high window in the hospital and looked down. Behind me, the baby in the crib started to wail. A dark, intrusive thought took hold: If I leave, what happens to her? Will the world allow her to exist? Will Victor hurt her? Or will she be like me—discarded by Madeline, left to wither away in silence until she dies just to satisfy the plot? I started shaking. I walked back to the crib, my hands trembling as I reached for her small neck. I wanted to take her with me. I wanted to save her from the life ahead. But then, she stopped crying. She stared at me with those big, watery eyes, looking at me as if I were her entire universe. The door burst open. Nurses and bodyguards swarmed in, shoving me away. I looked at my hands, horrified by what Victor’s poisonous whispers had almost driven me to do. The news reached the Jackson family immediately. The patriarch demanded a meeting. They wanted the child. I gave them everything. I signed the papers. I let go of the woman who hated me, and I gave up the daughter I was too broken to protect. I took two million dollars—just enough to cover my parents’ medical bills for the rest of their lives—and I disappeared. Madeline never showed up to the mediation. She couldn’t even bear to look at me. So, I accepted my role. I stayed in the shadows. I let her go, and I let myself go. I was pulled back to the present by a soft weight pressing into my side. Sophie had rolled over in her sleep, tucking herself into my chest. She was snoring softly, her tiny hand clutching my shirt as if she were afraid I’d vanish if she let go. I looked at her innocent face and let out a long, jagged breath. If she knew her father had almost ended her life the day she was born, would she still be here? She’d be running for the hills. 3 Morning came, and Madeline was still a no-show. I couldn’t figure out the angle. They had fought so hard for her, and now she was just… here. I woke Sophie up, got her dressed, and hailed a cab to take her to school. Her preschool was an hour away in the city, a place for the children of the elite. Before getting out of the car, she made me promise ten times that I’d be there to pick her up. She was clingy, rambling about nothing, until she saw a specific car parked near the school gates. Her eyes lit up. she dragged me out of the cab, but as we got closer to the gates, she slowed down. She purposefully marched over to a chubby little boy who had just stepped out of a luxury SUV. She held my hand tightly, swinging our joined arms so he couldn’t miss it. “Daddy,” she said, her voice loud enough for the entire sidewalk to hear. “You’ll be here to pick me up later, right?” It was the first time she had called me “Daddy.” Even when she’d shown up at my door, she hadn’t used the word. The little boy stared at me, skeptical. “If you have a dad, why hasn’t he ever brought you to school before?” Sophie lifted her chin, her expression one of pure disdain. “My dad is an executive. He’s incredibly busy, but he took special time off today just for me.” She put a heavy emphasis on “special.” She paraded me to the entrance like I was a trophy. Before she went inside, her bravado flickered. She leaned in and whispered, “You… you are coming, right?” When I didn’t answer immediately, she glared at me, her voice trembling. “You promised in the car! Adults aren’t allowed to lie!” I knelt down, adjusted her crooked collar, and ruffled her hair. It was soft, just like I remembered. “I’ll be here. I promise.” A smile tugged at her lips before she forced her face back into a mask of regal indifference. “Fine. I’ll be waiting.” I watched her until she disappeared inside. Then, I found her teacher. I wanted to know how she was doing. The teacher hesitated, then sighed. “Look, I know the Jackson family is powerful, and maybe it’s not my place… but Sophie’s father? Even if you’re busy, you can’t just ignore her.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Nobody has ever come to a parent-teacher conference. Not once since she enrolled. The other kids have started saying she doesn’t have a father. It’s affecting her, Mr. Sterling.” My heart sank. Not even an assistant? Madeline couldn’t even be bothered to send a proxy? I felt a surge of regret. Maybe I shouldn’t have signed those papers. But back then, I was a bankrupt ghost with two dying parents. How could I have raised a child? I pulled out my phone and dialed Madeline’s number. I needed to talk to her. If she didn’t want Sophie, I would take her. I wasn’t rich, but I could give her a life. As the phone started ringing, a ringtone sounded right behind me. I turned around. Madeline was stepping out of a sleek black sedan. Six years had passed. She looked different, yet exactly the same. She was looking down at her buzzing phone, then she looked up and met my eyes. “You’ve been hiding from me for a long time,” she said. “Don’t you think it’s time we talked?” Unlike my haggard, worn-down self, Madeline was the picture of composed power. She looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. I’d heard rumors—that she’d taken over the entire Jackson empire, that her brand was a global powerhouse, that she lived a quiet, solitary life. Seeing her felt like a physical blow. The memories I had tried to starve out came rushing back, filling my chest with a dull, aching heat. I thought I was over her. I wasn’t. This was the girl who used to make me rings out of twisted grass. This was the girl who pushed my bullies into the pool. How did we end up as strangers in a parking lot? She hadn’t changed. She just didn’t care about me anymore. “Long time no see, Madeline.” 4 We went to a quiet coffee shop nearby. Neither of us spoke until the lattes arrived. I didn’t want to play games. “Do you still want the child?” I asked bluntly. I had rehearsed this confrontation in my head a thousand times over the years. I was finally numb enough to sound indifferent. Madeline looked at me, her gaze unreadable. “Of course I do.” I looked out the window at the street signs. “Then make sure you pick her up. If you’re too busy for the conferences, let me know. I won’t get in the way of you and—” I couldn’t say Victor’s name. The sting was still too sharp. “—your life.” I stood up to leave. As I passed her, she spoke. “Is that all you want to talk to me about? Sophie?” I paused. “What else is there? We settled everything six years ago. You moved on, I took the money. What’s left?” Madeline let out a slow breath, her dark eyes locked on mine. “Fine. Then I don’t want her anymore.” The casualness of it floored me. “What are you talking about?” She gestured for me to sit back down. “Exactly what I said. You want her? Fine. She’s yours. But for the sake of her mental health, I will be coming to your place every Friday night to spend the weekend with her. I’ll leave Monday mornings for the office.” It was absurd. It was irrational. “Madeline, we’re divorced.” She let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Are we? I never signed the papers.” I felt the blood drain from my face. Six years ago, her grandfather had handed me the papers. I assumed she was too disgusted to see me, so I signed them and left. She was saying she never finished the process. But why wait six years to find me? I wasn’t deluded enough to think she still loved me. Maybe the papers got lost. Maybe she needed a formal settlement for tax reasons. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll sign new ones.” “No,” she said. “Madeline, let’s just finish this. It’s better for everyone.” “It’s not.” “What is it? Money? Stocks? You can keep it all. I want nothing.” “No.” Three ‘no’s. It made me angry, but it also felt hauntingly familiar. This was the Madeline I knew as a teenager. I remembered her eighteenth birthday. A rival of mine had been mocking me, humiliating me in front of the elite crowd. Madeline had walked up and shoved him into the pool without a word. It was a scandal. The elders were furious. Madeline refused to apologize. Her grandfather had her locked in a study for three days as punishment. I had sat outside that locked door. “I’m sorry,” I whispered through the wood. There was a silence, then the sound of her shifting, sitting on the other side of the door. “Go away,” she’d mumbled. “You should have just let him talk,” I said. “It didn’t matter.” “No.” “Don’t be guilty,” she’d added, tapping on the door. “I did it because I wanted to. It has nothing to do with you. Don’t you dare feel guilty.” Coming back to the present, I felt like I was hearing those words again. Madeline smiled, the light from the window catching the faint dust motes in the air. “Miles,” she said, using my name for the first time. “We are never going to be ‘even.’”

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